


You Just Got Ghosted!

by Ragga



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Ghosts, Hale Family Feels, M/M, POV Multiple, Pack Feels, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Steter Reverse Bang 2019, Stilinski Family Feels, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19042663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragga/pseuds/Ragga
Summary: “What’s your name, angel?” little Stiles murmured even as his eyes fell closed, quickly losing his battle against sleep.Stiles smiled. It was a little sad but also heavy with the knowledge that what he was doing was the right thing—heavy with the knowledge he didn’t deserve the moniker bestowed upon him.“You can call me Mietek.”Or the one where there's time travel, feels abound, two Stiles in one timeline, and one of them stuck somewhere between the planes of existence. Yet a ghost can still manage to save the day and get the girl. Or the wolf. Manly wolf. Because Peter.





	1. Stiles

**Author's Note:**

> I have created a monster. Beware, or it'll suck you in like it did me.
> 
> All kidding aside, I had a ton of fun writing this story and working with [Sky_Song](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_Song)! The amazing [art post](https://skysong246.tumblr.com/post/185608274220/art-for-you-just-got-ghosted)! Thank you so much for being an amazing partner for Steter Reversebang 2k19! How much we were in sync still amazes me. Your art inspired me so much and your cheers were lifting when I felt I wasn't doing the pieces justice. I hope you (and everyone else) enjoy <3

“Are you _sure_ this is going to work?” Stiles asked again. Lydia didn’t even try to hide her scoff when she added another layer of runes on Stiles’ body.

“ _You_ were the one who designed this,” she answered. He marvelled her patience. It was truly a sight to see. “Shouldn’t you know?”

“Yeah, but you checked the calculations, Miss Fields Medal!”

Lydia took a deep breath and lifted the brush from Stiles’ skin. The tremors of her skeletal hand dissipated little by little.

“I _said_ they looked good enough.” The brush was back in action, dragging across Stiles’ navel. It tickled. “Worth a try at least. Now hold still or you’ll have to do this by yourself!”

Stiles settled down, forcing himself not to move an inch. It was hard, with the ants crawling under his skin and the steady dribbling noise of the rain outside making its way inside the former Whittemore house. Only their footprints had made a dent in the ever-growing layers of dust on the floor, testament to the skill of the builders and the money thrown at them that the house was even standing anymore.

Even if no furniture was left in the house nor a life had touched the walls in years, it was still the safest place anyone could find in Beacon Hills. Or perhaps because of it.

Who wanted to touch something that was left for dead anyway?

The brush made one last swirl before the tickling sensation stopped. “There,” Lydia said. She took the bottle and squinted. “Just in time too.”

“We done?”

“Yes. Don’t move yet, it needs to dry.”

“Okay.” Stiles peered at the ceiling he had become very familiar with the past few hours, acquainted even. He had named the crack one Tim and the crack two Tom, deciding they were cousins fighting over to kill the lone, forgotten lamp in the middle. Their honour had been clearly besmirched. Which one would manage to create the decisive final plunge underneath it? He frowned, his ears straining.

“Lydia, can you hear that?”

Lydia froze, the cleaning of her equipment momentarily forgotten. Her head whipped around as she stared outside the second-story window. If it was possible that she could be any paler, Stiles was sure he could have seen the blood vanish under her skin.

“Stiles, you need to go.”

Stiles scrambled up, carelessly throwing his plaid shirt back on. Lydia was focused on whatever it was outside again—he didn’t know and almost didn’t want to either. He wouldn’t be surprised if the actual devil had come on earth, so much had he seen within this cursed land.

“What is—?”

“ _Now_.” Lydia grabbed at him and then they were running to the attic. It was the only room without any age-old dirt or lingering dust bunnies, the only one they had bothered to clean completely. The circle they had painstakingly drawn was still there, just as dark on the wooden floor as the paint on Stiles’ skin. He supposed it was fitting, he thought, as he was meant to be the final piece for the ritual rather than the outsider chanting mumbo jumbo.

He felt Lydia let go of him and turned back, wanting to ask yet another question, begging for any last words—

She pushed him and he stumbled backwards. The last thing he saw was the defiant green stare in the middle of dying colours and ashen face, the victorious grin sending him off as the loud noise got ever-closer and her mouth opened, the lines on her face tightened—

The runes connected and all he could see was darkness.

***

Stiles knew pain. He knew the pain of claws digging into his skin. He knew the pain of losing the people he loved the most. He knew the pain from seeing the dead walk amongst the living against their will. He knew it as much as he knew every other part of himself.

Yet he was still surprised and couldn’t help the scream that tore out of his throat.

He was being ripped apart from inside, like his soul was separating from his body and leaving him with nothing but an echo of a memory. The runes burned his skin like a brand. He couldn’t even touch them without a flash of endless agony. He didn’t know how long he was stuck in the hell he had created—because no matter who had helped him, it had been his idea, his own, his own fault.

He felt like he was dying.

Stiles thought he could hear another scream with him, with higher pitch but just as terrified. He forced his eyes open, hadn’t even known they were closed, and saw a blob of light waver before him. He himself was encased in what looked like a sun and burned hot thousand-fold. He reached over, tried to touch the other source, but the scream intensified, the _terror_ intensified, and there was not enough space, he was suffocating, decay painting his insides and Stiles—

He ripped himself away.

With one spike of light, the cloak of brightness began to dissolve. It bled from between his fingers, leaving his skin look almost… translucent. He wasn’t colourless as much as muted. He blinked rapidly and saw the final traces of the light swirl around him forlornly and he tried to touch them but his hand only went through. He could feel some of it burn inside him but that was the only thing he did feel. The burn was gone, the pain was gone, but so was the feeling of… sensation.

The door banged open behind him and Stiles whipped around, finding frantic eyes staring straight at him. His father was standing right there and, for a brief second in time, Stiles felt like a little kid again. The wild eyes, the fear, they were still there, but the lines were less severe and his hair had only a touch of grey. He was alive, Stiles thought dazedly, and he couldn’t help but reach for the man. He wanted to feel the warmth in his father’s skin, know that he was there, just seeing wasn’t enough, he wanted _more_ —

Noah’s gaze broke from his and, as Stiles’ hand reached for the touch he was promised, he walked right through him.

Stiles froze as the world froze with him. His arm was still raised but he now realised he hadn’t just seemed translucent, he _was_ , in fact, see-through. He could see the floor through his hand, and the blue of his shirt was so pale in comparison to the shade he knew for certain it had been before. Stiles stared at the scene in horror.

 _What_ did this _mean_?

“Stiles!” his dad said, bringing Stiles back to the present, and he turned to see Noah clinging to what looked like Stiles as he used to be years ago. Pale skin, moles the only bright spots, dark circles around the muted eyes. Stiles glanced around and caught a brightly-decorated calendar on the wall that had days crossed up to the date Stiles knew intimately. “What was that scream? Did you see a nightmare? Are you alright?”

“I’m—fine,” little Stiles said. and Stiles couldn’t help but marvel how high his voice was. Had it really been that high at some point? He could detect the little shakes even as little Stiles hugged his da—Noah. As he hugged Noah. Not his dad, not anymore. The thought burned a hole inside Stiles’ chest.

Noah drew back to inspect little Stiles and now Stiles could recognise the signs of tiredness. When Noah breathed in little Stiles’ direction, he winced, and Stiles knew it wasn’t because Noah had forgotten to wash his teeth… even if little Stiles didn’t know it at this stage. Not yet.

Stiles swallowed but only thin air.

“Are you sure?” Noah asked. He brushed little Stiles’ hair from his eyes. “Do you want to sleep with me tonight?”

Which probably meant the couch in the living room because Noah couldn’t enter the main bedroom in the first two months. If their calculations hadn’t gone as off as everything else. Stiles’ mind whirled. Something had happened between Lydia and him working on the ritual and the subsequent activation. Something had gone sideways, but Stiles couldn’t figure out what that something _was_. He was supposed to be _in_ little Stiles right now, _be_ little Stiles right now, but here he was, transparent and decidedly separate from the other Stiles in the picture.

“I—I think I’m—good,” little Stiles said after a while. Stiles blinked. What? He had never said no to a proposal like that. Noah looked confused as well.

“Are you sure?” he repeated. “I could sleep here with you tonight?” Little Stiles hesitated but nodded. Noah sighed. He pulled little Stiles close, hugging him tight, before letting go again. “All right then. Do you want to talk about it?” A headshake was his only answer. Noah gave him one of his sad little smiles. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

“Okay.”

“I love you, kiddo. We’ll talk in the morning, all right?”

“Okay. Love you.”

Stiles stepped out of the way when Noah rose. There was hesitation in his movements, like he wanted to stay but wasn’t sure of his welcome. Stiles couldn’t remember anything from that time that would tell him why that was, but at least Lydia and he hadn’t messed up the timing part of the spell. He was still in the right timeframe if not the right… situation.

Noah walked past him and Stiles’ eyes followed him out unwittingly, couldn’t stop until the door was closed again. The silence crept into the room and it was an uncomfortable one. When he turned back to his younger self, he found him staring straight at him.

However, unlike with Noah, the gaze wasn’t wavering and seeing through him; no, it met his without a drop of hesitation that made Stiles envious of himself.

“Who are you?” little Stiles asked.

“I’m—uh,” Stiles floundered.

“You can do anything you want with me,” little Stiles said. “Just don’t hurt my dad. He’s the only one I have left.”

Stiles jerked with disgust. “I’m not doing _anything_ to either of you!” he said. A little part of him winced with the reminder than he had been ready to rewrite his younger self but, now, seeing him there, there was no way he would be able to do that. He would rather stay a… ghost, if that’s what it took.

That gave him an idea.

He leaned in, crouching a little to be on little Stiles’ level. “Your mother sent me.”

Now it was time for his counterpart to shiver and his eyes narrowed instantly. “My mom is dead.”

“She is,” Stiles agreed. “But I don’t look alive either, now do I?”

Little Stiles squinted. “You do look funny,” he declared. “And dad walked right through you.”

“That’s because I’m… dead.” That was probably quite accurate in the grand scheme of things. He was, now that his thoughts were clearing, pretty sure Lydia had begun screaming when the ritual activated—but whether for herself or him or those coming after them, he didn’t know. Nonetheless, it was also true that there was little left for him to return to. He would, given the chance, because leaving Lydia and their little group of survivors alone hadn’t been what he wanted even if it _was_ necessary.

Wait. Now he might _have_ a chance for that. He wasn’t fused with the present Stiles. He could—he could use this. He could still succeed _and_ go back, wherever or whenever that was.

He had a _chance_.

“Your mother came to me when she died. She… there are a group of us with certain gifts that don’t pass on the same way regular people do,” he quickly explained, mind tripping over ideas before dismissing most of them. “She asked me to watch over you for her.”

Little Stiles looked at him suspiciously. “Why isn’t _she_ here then?”

“We… cannot interact with those that knew us when we were alive,” Stiles answered. “It goes against the rules.”

Or if there _were_ any rules, Stiles was sure this would be one of them. No one would move on with their lives if no one ever left. Though he was also quite sure that, even if that _was_ the case, his mother wouldn’t care a single lick and would claw herself from wherever she was to be there for her family.

Yet, she wasn’t here. Stiles was.

“So instead, she sent me.”

Little Stiles was quiet for a moment, before he said, barely above a whisper, “She said I was a monster.”

And she did, so many times that Stiles himself had believed her words for years afterwards. Little Stiles’ staunch plea for his father’s life made so much sense it hurt the few memories Stiles had from that time all the more. He walked over to little Stiles and kneeled next to his bed, holding his gaze.

“Which she is very sorry about,” Stiles said seriously. “But the thing that makes _you_ able to see me made her go mad. It started to alter her reality and her mind cleared only after she arrived to us.”

Little Stiles looked like he was trying not to grab at any and all words that left Stiles’ mouth. Stiles smiled a little, the gentle curve of it softening his face. “She would have wanted to be here, you know. She will, no doubt, welcome you when your time comes. But she sent me here to make sure that what happened to her will _not_ happen to you.”

Stiles had long suspected that his mother didn’t just die from frontotemporal dementia. There had been too many little discrepancies there that the doctors couldn’t explain and which being magic, a spark, could. Stiles suspected his mother never knew she had the gift and, in the end, all that untapped power drove her mad.

If he could prevent the traumatic affair of his own awakening, he would. If it would save a few significant lives at the same time while causing several other less deserving ones to rot in hell…

Well. Stiles had never said he was a saint.

“How do I know that you are even tellin’ the truth?” little Stiles asked. He clearly, desperately, wanted to believe what Stiles was saying, but he was afraid to. Stiles automatically reached for him but hesitated, his hand hovering over little Stiles’. He settled, instead, laying it on top of the blanket nearby.

“She said you would say that, her clever little Mischief.”

Little Stiles winced even as his eyes widened. Tears started to gather in his eyes and he sniffed. “She’s… she’s really in a good place now?”

Stiles nodded, preferring not to seal his lie in words. Little Stiles started to cry in earnest. His sobs were a quiet affair, grief mixed with relief.

“She’s so proud of you.”

He sat there, listening to the cries and sniffles that were just quiet enough not to be heard from downstairs. It took a while—what was time for the dead, anyway?—but his younger counterpart started to slowly calm down. His eyes drooped as he fell against his pillow in exhaustion.

“What’s your name, angel?” little Stiles murmured even as his eyes fell closed, quickly losing his battle against sleep.

Stiles smiled. It was a little sad but also heavy with the knowledge that what he was doing was the right thing—heavy with the knowledge he didn’t deserve the moniker bestowed upon him.

“You can call me Mietek.”

***

The next day dawned slow and sure as if it was just yet another day. For Stiles, though, it spelled a brand-new start. It wasn’t what he had thought or wanted but he could see the benefits now that the first shock had passed. He couldn’t hold a damn thing in his hands and he had _tried_. He had attempted to shut the nightlight and grab a pen and his counterpart’s mug of water and he had only managed to stick his hand right through the table. He had even tried to open the door but, rather than the knob turning in a twist of satisfaction, he just… phased through it. Which, in any other situation, would have been cool and worth investigating, but now made him want to throw a tantrum instead.

At least he was glad he had pulled on a shirt before rushing to complete the ritual which they had to have botched somehow despite Lydia’s reassurances. He didn’t like the idea of running shirtless twenty-four-seven all day every day. And even this was a revelation he only found out by looking down because _he couldn’t even see himself in a mirror._

Yet, the benefits still managed to win over the… flaws in execution. He did end up in the past right when and where they had intended. The Hales were still alive, the Nemeton was as unfucked as possible, and all. They had a chance, all of them. And with him not merging with this Stiles, there was a possibility he could return to _his_ time and see his pack again. He had faith that it wasn’t her own life Lydia was going to scream for; in fact, he rather suspected it was for him that she did, considering how he ended up.

He never thought he’d see a day he was dead. He thought he would just be, you know, _dead_. It was a rather… out of body experience, so to speak.

Stiles absently rubbed his shoulder. The memory of Lydia’s response to puns was just as strong as the hit itself was. He couldn’t wait to use it on. He missed her. He had been in the past for less than a day and he was already missing her and the rest of their ragtag pack something _crazy_.

Feeling the too familiar sense of loss and grief settle in his not-bones, he decided to shove them into a box and tape it shut because he was not going to break apart now. He did it. _They_ did it. He was there and he could _fix_ things.

With a little help.

He leaned over his younger self as he slept. The circles around his eyes were less severe than they had been in the nightlight earlier. The buzzcut really made him look younger. Or it may be the years that he hadn’t gained yet. Geez, had he ever been this young?

 _The evidence suggests that_ , his inner Lydia voice said. It had even perfected the dry tone. Shut up, he told it. He rubbed his shoulder again. Damn it. Lydia won the argument even when she wasn’t there.

He _really_ missed her.

He nailed the box containing all the unnecessary-for-now feelings to the floor.

The clock next to his counterpart blared into an obnoxious ring. The kid groaned, curling into himself, before throwing his hand out to whack the annoying little machine. He repeated the move twice before he managed to actually hit the right button.

Talent right there. Someone alert the press.

So _this_ was the source of all his self-loathing. How nice. He really hated himself sometimes. Now with double the trouble! Two with the price of one! That no one wants to pay! Yay.

Little Stiles rolled out of his bed and his feet met the floor with a thump. The yawn was wide and revealed a gap in his teeth Stiles hadn’t seen last night. Christ, this Stiles was such a _baby_.

He cooed.

Baby Stiles—and he seriously needed something to call him, this was getting tiresome—jumped slightly and whipped around to stare where Stiles was floating. Floating. He was floating. He stared at the inches between his feet and the floor in wonder.

He could float. Could he fly? That would almost make this ghost thing worth it if he could. Now if only he could touch things he could actually use his newfound invisibility and awesome maybe-flying skills and stop what amounted to a disaster of a personal and international kind because, apparently, corrupt and basically murder one Nemeton and they all started to fail after that.

Yggdrasil never was just one tree.

One more lesson far too late learned.

Stiles lifted his hand in an imitation of a wave. He wiggled his fingers.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” his younger self echoed after him. He rubbed his eyes and squinted. “It wasn’t a dream.”

“Nope,” Stiles popped his ‘p’ in a manner that always caused white rage around him. He wished he had gum. “I’m still here.”

Baby Stiles—and that’s it, he was christened as Baby S from this moment onwards—kept staring at him. Then he stood up quickly and walked over to Stiles. Stiles blinked in quick succession as he was being, for the lack of a better word, examined like a science project. Baby S circled around him and Stiles tried to keep as still as possible. Being mostly dead didn’t seem to make him any less twitchy. Who knew?

And then he found a hand pierce his stomach and he let out a high-pitched noise he would later deny he ever made.

Baby S stumbled backwards when Stiles rushed forward and fell to the floor as he scrambled away from the offending hand.

“Uh,” Baby S said. “Did that hurt?”

“No!” Stiles said, rubbing his stomach and then clutching around it. “It doesn’t make it any less rude though!”

“I, uh. Sorry?”

Stiles gave him his best glare. It only seemed to make his younger self look sheepish than actually regretful. He swore he had never been as rude as a child. He had been an _angel_ , no matter what people might have claimed. They were just… biased. That was it. Only that. Yes.

They stared at each other until a loud car rushed past the house. Baby S blinked first— _ha_ —and glanced at his clock. He blanched.

“I’m late!” he squeaked and rushed to grab his things. “Where’s my maths book? Do you see it anywhere?”

Stiles looked down from his vantage point.

“Nope,” he said, seeing it lie next to the pile his counterpart kept browsing. Baby S let out an annoyed little noise that filled Stiles with unnatural glee.

“You’re useless!” Baby S declared, throwing a bunch of books into his backpack—his maths book was one of them—and took off, his stomping loud in Stiles’ ears. He snickered, walking after him.

He found Baby S in the kitchen, shoving spoonful after spoonful of cereal into his mouth and somehow managing to drink milk from his glass at the same time. Baby S noticed him looking and a defensive look bounced on his face.

“They stay crunchier this way!” he said. Stiles blinked.

“Huh?”

“The… cereal,” Baby S said. His eyes narrowed. “You are not making fun of me, are you?”

“Of what? Not putting milk on your cereal?” Stiles asked. “No. Why would I? Soggy cereal are the worst.”

A disbelieving grin made its way onto Baby S’ face.

“You are alright. I can see why mom would send you down here.”

Now it was Stiles’ turn to squint at Baby S but he offered no explanation. Baby S finished his cereal in silence and carried the dirty dishes into the sink. He grabbed his bag and rushed past Stiles again, the bag swinging rudely through Stiles’ arm.

He watched as his counterpart hastily put on his shoes, retying his laces when he messed up them the first time.

“Are you going to school like that?” Stiles asked, leaning against the wall. Baby S looked down, still decked in faded pyjama pants and a t-shirt too large for his thin frame.

“Crap!”

***

Stiles followed his younger self to school. He hadn’t seen a sign of Noah in the morning but that wasn’t surprising; he had been home the previous evening so it was likely he had a morning shift today. He hadn’t gone out to check. Rather, he tagged along the ride, half-running, half-floating, attempting to catch the bus that quickly disappeared from view. Thankfully he knew where it was headed so he still made it to the school just as the bus let out the kids.

Another positive side of being dead: he wasn’t winded at all.

He looked around the school and could make out the people who had once taught him as well. The music teacher he had hated and the P.E. teacher he had loved—a weird trend that kept repeating but Mr. Ralph was awesome and his twists on dodgeball were legendary. Right next door was the junior high school, but he didn’t go to take a peek at the halls; the replacement they had hired to take his mother’s place still hurt after all these years.

He concentrated on his feet and felt the air change around him. Or perhaps it wasn’t really a change, but he almost _felt_ it so there it was. The ‘it’ being something. Like the air. It took him a while—until the final bell—but he found himself finally floating up to the second floor to see the kid versions of his friends and enemies and everything in between rush out of the door in their hurry to get home.

Jackson was the first one out, his leather backpack the only thing Stiles managed to see of him. Lydia was meticulously packing her own bag, making sure she didn’t hurt any of the books. Isaac—Christ, they’d been on the same class too, hadn’t they?—was actually looking _happy_ at the prospect of going home. Matt didn’t look awful either, chatting with two other kids Stiles didn’t remember the names of. He paused, seeing a girl walk out with long brown hair that he almost recognised. But then Baby S gathered his attention, making his way out alone. It reminded Stiles that Scott hadn’t fully transferred to Beacon Hills yet; Melissa was already here but Scott was to finish elementary school with his dad.

No wonder he was quick to accept the weirdest things, such as Stiles, and Scott the asthmatic loner. They were both _lonely_.

…and wasn’t that what Stiles had banked on when he came to the past?

Something ugly squeezed his insides. A girl stuck up a conversation with Baby S but it dried off when another joined in. Baby S wasn’t alone, per se; he had always been outgoing which brought in brownie points. But he was also in the midst of his self-made isolation that, on its own, wouldn’t end until Scott happened. Because everyone knew the nice lady from next door, the English teacher who always came down to read for them once a week and then stopped coming altogether.

And it had been too much for him to be reminded those Wednesday afternoons were never coming again.

He floated back to the house and welcomed his younger self home. The surprised look broke something in Stiles’ chest.  He was suddenly reminded how there hadn’t been someone there in a while and wouldn’t be either. Noah was too busy trying to make the ends meet with his deputy’s salary and it wouldn’t get better until he made Sheriff and could make his own hours. They were rarely home at the same time. Last night had been a miracle on its own.

“Hey,” he said. His breakthrough on ‘how to ghost’ felt lame and weak under the realisation that what had been the best-case scenario for him was the worst for his counterpart. “How was school?”

“I…” Baby S blinked at him. “It was… all right.”

“Oh.” They stared at each other again, similar to the looks exchanged hours earlier. Stiles shifted, stepping on air unconsciously. “You should come in.”

Baby S broke from his reverie. “Yeah,” he said slowly. He did, closing the door behind him and shaking off his shoes. “Other people can’t see you, can they?”

“I don’t think so,” Stiles said. “I think your dad might have said something about it if he had.”

“Right. Yeah.”

The awkward silence resumed. Stiles licked his lips. “Do you have homework?”

“Maths,” Baby S answered. “I’m eating first.” And then he moved past Stiles to the kitchen. Out of a habit he followed him. His counterpart took out a bottle that looked like orange juice and bread from the pantry. The only topping he put on was butter.

“You know,” he said, words muffled from food. “I was thinking.”

Stiles floated to sit on the kitchen counter. “Yes?”

Baby S opened and closed his mouth several times before he made a noise out of frustration and dug his hand into his backpack. It had a Spider-Man on it. Stiles remembered only giving it up when even Heather made fun of it. He took out a crumbled piece of paper.

Baby S smoothed it out and Stiles could see it was some sort of a list. “I have some questions,” Baby S announced. The only sign of his nervousness was the tapping against his glass.

Stiles took a more comfortable position and leaned back. He hoped he didn’t melt into the cupboard behind him.

“Shoot.”

“How was mom? Be honest.”

And they were off to a good start. Stiles sighed. “As good as she could be.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Baby S said, annoyed. Stiles gave him a look.

“She died,” he said bluntly. “And she’s not allowed to come back. She’s dealing with it.”

His younger self looked down at the table. Stiles hunched forward.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not technically supposed to be here either. It took time for me to get here and the only reason I am is because I’m not technically dead like her.”

Baby S lifted his head in a flash. “You are not? But you said—!”

“Technically,” Stiles repeated. “In all purposes I am. I don’t have a body and I am stuck here for now. You could think of me as a… spirit. A ghost. I am but a soul whose body is gone. So, dead. Real dead don’t come back, Stiles. Not ever, which is why necromancy is a perversion of magic. You can only bring back bodies, not the souls once they’ve parted.”

“Magic?” Baby S glanced at his list and then crumbled it again. His eyes got a steely look in them. “You told me you’re here to stop whatever happened to her.”

“Yes.” Stiles floated down and leaned on his forearms at the table. “You are a spark. Essentially that means a magic user of a sort. There are different kinds of magic—witches, necromancers, druids—who draw from all kinds of sources. A spark’s magic drives from belief, the strongest and weakest of them all.”

Baby S frowned. “How can it be both at the same time?”

“Think of it this way: if you don’t believe, nothing will happen. Having a pure resolve is the hardest thing to achieve. Your mom had that, didn’t she? Conviction.” His younger self nodded. “It wasn’t enough. She never awakened her spark and it rotted her inside. I’m here to help you draw it out.”

“Why you? Other than that you can be here.”

Stiles grinned. “I am a spark too.”

“Is that why…?”

“Yeah, that’s why I can come and go. I was awakened and then I did something and… now I’m here.”

“Will you leave?” Baby S asked plainly. That gave Stiles a pause. Of course he was leaving. He had to get back to Lydia at some point, to Kira and Liam and—yeah, he had to get back. They were banking on him. Lydia might have screamed but he firmly believed his body was still there, waiting for him to return to it. The ritual was ever meant only to send back a soul and they just messed up with the delivery address. But he wasn’t here to stay. The mistake meant he wasn’t stuck here; he had to believe that.

He just had to figure out how.

After.

“Only when you are ready,” he promised.

Baby S looked at him and then averted his eyes. “What if I won’t ever be ready?”

“You will,” Stiles said firmly. That drew him a glance from his counterpart. “What did I just tell you about belief?”

“That doesn’t—”

Stiles dropped his chin to his hands, brows raised. Baby S’ eyes widened.

“Really?” he asked, voice climbing high. “That’s just… bullshit.”

“Language,” Stiles said. He then amended, “It doesn’t of course always work like that. But it can.”

“Then why did mom have to _die_?” The pain in Baby S’ voice was raw and sudden. He hid it well for a kid whose mother died less than three months ago according to the date on the newspaper lying on the kitchen counter.

“Because life isn’t fair.” The words sounded hollow even to Stiles’ own ears. He felt the years weight on his shoulders. “It takes and it takes and it takes until there’s nothing left to take.” If he could he would tear up as well. Now his younger self had to cry for the both of them which he seemed ready to do. Stiles’ tone gentled.

“But it can also give. If you stay kind, you’ll see the good sides as well. The friends we make, the laughs we hear, the beauty we see. It doesn’t always feel like it’d even up, but humans are strong. We make do even in the darkest of times.”

“You sound like you’ve gone through…” Baby S’ voice trailed off.

Stiles was certain his weariness was reflected on his face. He found himself floating towards the ceiling and Baby S had to crane his neck to keep up with him. “Before this I did experience a lot of shit,” he said bluntly. Baby S let out a startled hiccup of a laugh. His eyes still looked wetter than they should. “That much is true. But if I can make it easier for you, I will. I promise.”

Baby S stared at him. He nodded then, once and sharp.

“Where do we start?” he asked. Stiles tilted his head. He floated down again so he was on the same level as his younger self. He reached over and his hand hovered above Baby S’ heart.

“Here.”

Baby S lifted his hand and clutched at the shirt there. Stiles smiled but there was no humour in it. Only grief only someone who had lost their world could understand.

“Let it all out,” he merely said.

When Noah returned home late that evening, he found Baby S asleep at the kitchen table, tear tracks on his cheeks and maths homework undone. Stiles watched as he gathered Baby S up in his arms like he was something easily breakable and precious and carried him upstairs. He stayed with him, fingers combing his short-shorn hair in silence, until the moon rose and the window let its gentle light in. It enhanced the deepening lines on Noah’s face and the tired look that wouldn’t disappear for years to come.

Stiles sat and watched, his mouth a narrow line.

Not again, he swore. He wouldn’t let the past mistakes repeat themselves.

Not again.

***

Stiles floated somewhere above the elementary school, frowning at the cloudless sky. He had been in the past for a few days and hadn’t made a headway into preventing the things to come. He wasn’t even sure how to _start_. He had to teach his counterpart how to use his spark, that was a no-brainer, but how to move from there? He didn’t know exactly where the Hale land’s borders went and if they went too near the Hale house the Hales would know. It wasn’t a problem per se but it could hinder things. Baby S was a kid and Stiles was dependent on him. If something happened…

No, it was better the Hale pack didn’t know what they were up to right now. It would only draw unnecessary attention to them. But they still needed information; information Stiles didn’t have. There had been no one left to give him what he needed. The only Hale he had known to be alive had been Cora, and even then they hadn’t heard from her for two months prior to the ritual. Like the rest of them, she had been too young to be in the know.

Yesterday he had attempted to go and snoop around the Hale house himself, only to be yanked back like there was a chain attached to his neck. After a few tries—each one making him move further and further away from the direction of the preserve—he realised he was being tugged towards where kid Stiles and Noah were going back home from the diner.

Stiles cursed. He had been bound to his younger self somehow, somewhere. Probably at the mess when he arrived. He still didn’t know what happened there, what went wrong in the end. Whatever it was, it had to be why this was a thing as well.

It wasn’t the first time he thought it should have been Lydia who came back. She would probably have plans after plans made up by now. Well, it wasn’t that Stiles didn’t have either but…

It was hard, being here. Separated from everything he knew, thrown into this weird being of not-being. He had tested his limits, finding out he wouldn’t fall through objects if he focused on it. He still couldn’t grab things but at least he didn’t have to worry about rolling in the air and ending up in the bathroom of a wrinkly old grandpa. There were things he didn’t want to see, ever.

He heard the bell and watched as kids poured onto the playground. He floated down enough to see the time. It was just recess. He groaned and let his body fall down in a dive. He wished he could feel the air currents against his face. As it was, not a strand of his hair was out of place when he stopped his fall a few feet above ground. He lied there, head thrown back and limbs akimbo.

A flash of blue caught his eye and he saw a man walking by with hunched shoulders and air around them that screamed heavy even to Stiles. He was walking from the direction Stiles knew the high school stood and the look he threw at the elementary school was full on anguish. A girl looked in the man’s direction, the same one from Baby S’ classroom, and tried to go to him but was pulled back by the bell and rush of other kids. Stiles had to do a doubletake when he could now place her.

Cora. Which meant the guy was—

Stiles zoomed in on him and it only took a few odd seconds before he was floating next to him. The blue glare was unmistakeable.

Peter.

Stiles didn’t know when he had last seen the man. It was somewhere between the end of high school and the second year of college he had to cut short. One day Cora had arrived back and asked if they had found Peter’s body yet. None of them had even known he had died; the only person he kept any kind of contact with was Stiles and even with him he liked to go radio silent every once in a while.

It pained him to know he hadn’t even realised he was gone until it was too late.

He flew with him, listening to the silent fury that held him captive, and then Peter took a turn towards the park away from the eyes and slumped down on the lonely swing there, built on a strong branch. Stiles felt relief. He could feel his leash tighten its hold on him and it wouldn’t be long until it had reached its limit. Even now he didn’t know when he would be pulled away but, for now— _for now_ —he was there.

Peter grit his teeth and he let out a whine Stiles knew was a replacement for a howl. There was no place for such within the city limits and he couldn’t help but wonder why Peter made this the place for an apparent… breakdown.

Stiles blinked. Peter, having a breakdown? That wasn’t… Peter. Not the Peter he knew. What is this Peter? Did he… mistake him for another Hale? He settled in front of the man and gave him a once-over but, no, he knew those eyes. None of the Hales he knew had that exact shade of ice. Though the ice was breaking and leaking, melting, right in front of him.

“I told him to go to Talia,” he whispered, staring straight into Stiles’ chest, the gaze empty if not for the pain. “I told him—he should have _known_. _None_ of them were new to the supernatural when they joined our pack. He _knew_. I never—she died and he _knew_.

“Derek, you _idiot_.”

Stiles stared as tears started flowing freely down Peter’s cheeks, his arms heavy on his knees. Stiles had never seen him fall apart like he did now. Nothing had ever broken him down like this. He had suffered burning three times, being wounded and killed and kept in the fringes of the pack for as long as Stiles knew, even if he—there was— _how_? Peter had always seemed invincible, _especially_ when he came back from the land of the dead. There was no place, no spot, in Peter to go down like this. He was—

Peter’s breath hitched and Stiles’ very soul stuttered with it.

“That blasted idiot knew and I told him to go the alpha— _the_ alpha, not an alpha, and now I’m—all my work—” There was a hiccup that broke Stiles’ heart and he tried, he tried so hard to touch him but all his efforts were in vain as, while he might be able to touch him, Peter didn’t even react. He didn’t know he was there. He could touch but _he_ _couldn’t_ _touch_.

He couldn’t wipe his tears away. He couldn’t stench the flood, he couldn’t—he _couldn’t_.

“She hates me,” Peter whispered and Stiles wrapped himself around the man but he never even knew. “They hate me, they _all_ hate me, and I told him, but they don’t—they never believe me. None of them, they never—”

Stiles felt a tug on his navel and slowly, surely, he was being pulled away. His arms phased through Peter although he tried his hardest to keep his hold on him and he watched the broken man suffer alone—now, maybe all this time—until he could no longer see him.

He blinked his eyes and wished he could cry with him, bleed with him, but he couldn’t. He cursed his predicament into the deepest of hells and let out a frustrated bellow that didn’t echo and no one heard.

Stiles narrowed his eyes, determination setting into his very being, and turned his back on the scene he could no longer see. He flew towards where he knew his younger self was returning home, eager to start his studies as a spark as Stiles had promised he would the coming weekend.

He had work to do.

And now he knew where to start.


	2. Peter

Peter leaned back on the swing. Two weeks after his moment of weakness and he kept coming back. Talia still didn’t want him near her and her kids, Derek wouldn’t look him in the eye, Laura had no idea what was going on but went by her alpha’s cues and Cora… Well, she tried. She kept trying to reach him but, with the hurt he was inflicted with and the efforts made most often naught by Talia, it wasn’t a surprise she was at a distance too. It wasn’t an easy situation for an eight-year-old.

The clouds were getting greyer by the minute, Peter thought clinically. And he was getting more and more touch-starved. He’d have to do something about it but, right now, he didn’t want to bother. He’d rather sit in this swing even in a downpour than go back to the Hale house. He’d see if he could upgrade it back into home or if he had to look for an apartment elsewhere. Maybe he should go see his former classmates from Stanford, they had been getting a little insistent lately…

He frowned at the sky. Why did he keep coming back here anyway? It wasn’t that it was even a comfy seat, the swing that was. It was barely a rope with a piece of wood tied to it. Rather shabby on top it all too. If people saw him—

Peter snorted, a humourless smile spreading on his lips. And what would they do? Nothing, that was it. Half the town didn’t know what do with him and the other half was in love with him, he had made sure of that. The prodigious son of the Hales, back with a degree in a record time. Most were wondering why he would come back to their backwater town when he actually managed to _leave_. Right now? He wondered the same. Why did he settle for Stanford when he could have gone for Yale like he wanted as a kid?

He had gotten in too. He still remembered the regret he felt, giving his dream up to stay near his pack.

He rubbed his eyes, tired. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. The rest he had gotten these past couple of weeks has been… suboptimal. He was starting to see things. Like this kid that was standing in front of him. Pale as a ghost, he was, with weird dotted skin and eyes larger than life. He sort of reminded him of a ghost if not for the obvious smell of his.

Peter blinked.

“Hi,” the kid said. “I’m Stiles.”

It spoke. His vision was less of a vision than he thought. He closed his eyes and let out a groan.

“Go away.”

“I can’t,” the kid said. “I’m supposed to bring you home with me.”

Peter felt offended. “I’m not a _dog_.”

The kid glanced to his left, frowning, before looking back at Peter. “Yeah. I sort of got that. You are bai-petal for one.”

“Bipedal,” Peter corrected. The kid shrugged.

“Tomato, tomahto. Seriously though, I won’t get to learn more if you don’t come! Mietek said so. He said, and I quote, ‘I want Peter Hale in’.”

“You know a lot of words for a six-year-old,” Peter said. He examined the kid but he didn’t seem to want anything… suspicious. He was even speaking the truth as far as he knew.

“I’m nine!” he snapped. He paused and then added, “And I read. And listen when I want to, Mietek says.”

Peter couldn’t help it. He snorted. “And what does this ‘Mietek’ want from me?”

The kid looked to his left again. “He’s not saying. Or, well, I don’t know. Something about… border control? What on earth is that?”

Peter’s senses started tingling. Something was definitely not right here. “And this… Mietek… is here?”

“Yeah,” the kid said simply. He pointed at above him. “He’s up there right now. Says you have a balding spot forming.”

Peter threw a hand up and patted his carefully-arranged hair. “I do _not_ ,” he said, glaring upwards. The kid shrugged.

“Maybe. Also, you are staring at nothing. He’s to your right now.”

Peter shifted his glare.

“More.”

Peter gave up. There was nothing there he could see and he refused to be made an idiot out of.

“He’s laughing at you.”

“Why are you here again?” he said abruptly. “If I’m here just to be insulted—”

The kid glanced up though no longer as high as he had been. Instead, his eyes followed something that Peter couldn’t and settled somewhere to their left again, maybe around Peter’s height.

“Mietek says,” the kid said, and then hesitated. He scrunched his face and it made for a ridiculous look, all frown and no play. “Are you serious?” he demanded, and Peter blinked. “Werewolves? You’re kidding me. That’s bullshit.” Peter stiffened but the kid continued, “You’re not my dad! Or mom. Don’t bring her into this! I don’t care, there’s no soap in the afterlife!”

The kid hesitated. He looked back at Peter. “Is there?” He even sounded a little worried.

Peter stared at him. How should _he_ know? “You are the one seeing dead people,” he said. Apparently this was his life now. The kid’s head whipped around. He looked bewildered.

“What on earth was funny about that?” He then frowned again. “What do you mean I’m the ‘sixth sense’ kid? What’s a _meme_? I don’t want to be a meme! That sounds stupid! _You’re_ stupid! I could have been learning about that weird belief thing or the runes, you promised me runes!”

His next glare was directed at Peter again. He pointed straight at Peter’s chest and said, “You are coming with me or I’m making you!”

How he would do that Peter would like to know but, well, Peter was going to take up that invitation anyway. He needed to know more about this apparent… Mietek who knew about his pack and determine whether he was a threat or not. Even if he was reviled for the moment, he still had his duty to the pack.

“Sure,” he said easily. “After you.”

The kid squinted at him. “You let go far too easy,” he said. “Why?”

“You put up a reasonable argument,” Peter said, shrugging. The scowl on the kid’s face got deeper. His eyebrows actually met in the middle.

“No, I didn’t,” he said. “Werewolves and dead people are an awful reason. You should tell me to go to hell.”

“Language,” Peter said. The kid glowered, annoyed.

“Not you too!” He turned around and stomped away. Peter followed him leisurely. It wasn’t like the kid was going to leave him behind even if he did.

“Sure, kid.”

“It’s Stiles!” The k—Stiles yelled in front of him. Peter smirked.

“Sure, kid.”

“Ugh!”

***

“So,” Peter said as he leaned against the wall in Stiles’ room. He felt out of place in the midst of superhero posters and what looked like action figures. Of what, he couldn’t say; Derek could probably name them from memory, the nerd.

He hoped no one ever found out. He didn’t need people go around yelling ‘paedophile’ on top of everything. If his rotten luck stayed the same, Talia might even consider that to be true.

…No, that wasn’t fair of him, he admitted grudgingly. Talia was angry and afraid and dealing with things the same way their father always had; she had always been his daughter whereas Peter had been a carbon copy of their mother.

That was, he suspected, also why they had never really clicked as siblings while their parents’ marriage had. If romantic feelings were taken out of the equation, the only things left were the arguments and respect that both sides were hard-pressed to earn from each other. As said, they brought out the worst of each other. Sometimes he hoped—

“So,” he repeated. Stiles crossed his arms. “What do you know of my pack?”

“Pack?” he parroted. His head tilted before his eyes widened. “Wait, Mietek—you weren’t being serious, were you?” Stiles seemed to have a small-scale breakdown before he twirled to glare at the air in anger. “What’s this about not a good spark? Watch me believe!”

He turned back to Peter and pointed at him. “Show me!”

Peter raised a single brow—a little something he had practiced until perfected due to how much Talia hated it—and shifted into a half-shift smoother than most of his pack. Another thing Talia resented; he had always been more in-touch with his inner wolf than she had, despite her ability to full-shift.

Stiles jumped and stared, jaw hitting the floor below him. The finger was still pointing in his direction, now somewhat raised.

“How can you keep up that weird eyebrow thing without eyebrows?!”

Peter blinked. He tried to subtly sniff if Stiles was afraid of him, but he couldn’t sense any of that cold sweat or sudden sourness in the air. He was just that, surprised, without any unpleasantness attached to it.

Interesting.

“That is all you want to know?” he countered. Stiles’ shock turned into a scowl.

“No,” he said. “But that’d be a start. And stop looking so smug!”

“Excuse me?” Peter said but Stiles just waved a hand at him.

“Yeah no, not you, _Mietek_.”

“Ah, the famous Mietek.” Not. “I’d like to know who this person is, if you didn’t mind.”

“He’s—” Stiles stared into air and considered the answer. “He’s kind of like a guardian angel, I guess. Except not really.”

Peter couldn’t help it. He laughed.

“He’s acting all offended but I think that’s a grin he has. Yep, he’s smiling.” Stiles grinned a little himself before his scent soured. “My mom… she died some time ago,” he confessed. Peter wiped his smile away and took in the kid. He hadn’t looked like he had loved and lost but, as said, bravado was deceiving. “When it started getting… difficult… Mietek arrived. Mom sent him. He says he’s kind of dead, but I don’t really get his explanation so. Yeah.”

That didn’t really explain anything but— “So he’s here?”

“Yeah.”

“He doesn’t leave you?”

“Well, he _can_. He’s not bound to me,” Stiles said. “But he says he prefers to stay near me anyway.”

Peter nodded. He’d have to look for their books on necromancy just in case. This kid was a self-claimed magic user and if they had one of that kind with them it wouldn’t bode well for them. Necromancers tended to go nuts one way or another in the end. It was possible the kid was possessed. That would raise his threat level by a full ten.

You never knew until it was too late if they were dangerous or not.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Stiles repeated, scratching the back of his head. “He wanted me to tell you that you and your pack—werewolves, what the he-, no I didn’t say it, you don’t get to scold me. We don’t have a swear bank and no, we are not getting one. I mean, uh, Mietek says there’ll be danger in the near future. Or something.”

Something unpleasant ran down Peter’s spine. He took in the kid and his honest countenance—he wasn’t lying—and then moving his eyes on the spot where Stiles’ eyes kept flicking on.

“Mietek says you managed to pinpoint him and that you’re a… I’m not saying that!” Stiles sent him a wary look. “He can hurt _me_.”

“It was a dog joke, wasn’t it?” Peter said conversationally. Stiles looked spooked.

“No?” he tried. Peter rolled his eyes.

“I’m not going to hurt the messenger.” Stiles’ shoulders slumped in relief. “However,” he continued with a placating smile, “I am amenable in finding out how dead could learn to feel pain.”

“Mietek says if you learn how to do that, he’d give you a… bone,” the kid said haltingly. Peter bared his teeth the slightest bit. Stiles actually leaned closer, his initial wariness forgotten. “Do you mean to act like a wolf even in human form or is it all natural?” he asked curiously.

“I am a wolf whether I appear as human or not,” Peter answered. Try as he might, he could not sense the so-called ‘Mietek’. He _really_ needed his books. Apparently he’d have to brave Talia’s wrath to figure this out himself.

“Does that mean you can become a _real_ wolf?” Stiles asked. Peter’s lips twitched.

“What is this threat you were talking about?”

“Hey, answer me!”

Peter directed his snarl at the kid and he looked less inclined to test his temper by the second. Sullenly, he said instead, “Mietek says it’s not there yet but if you go look for it you’ll get killed yourself. But he can help you and needs to know your pack borders.”

“No deal,” Peter said instantly. Stiles blinked and nodded.

“That’s fine, he says. And that you are welcome to watch us and come to us when you decide you can trust us.”

Peter hated feeling powerless and this, right here, hit him in the gut. He had a kid in front of him acting as an interpreter for a being Peter couldn’t see. He had always prided himself in his ability to read the people around him and, now, his advantage had been taken from him. What he had was literally air in his hands and he couldn’t—

He gritted his teeth.

“Fine,” he said, summoning the most pleasant smile in his repertoire. The kid didn’t even seem to notice how he leaned back just the tiniest bit. “I think I will take my leave now.”

Stiles nodded again. “Sure,” he said. Then he turned back to the air. “Can I learn about those runes now? You promised! What do you mean my calli-whatsit is awful? What does that even mean? Wait what? _Rude_.”

Peter found himself ignored. The kid’s head moved as he kept having a one-sided conversation and while Peter could guess what was being said it didn’t make him feel any better. He left, slipping out when no one paid any attention to him and he was just another person walking down the street.

He imagined invisible eyes following him and his mouth drew into a narrow line.

Those books better have some answers or else.

***

Peter returned to the Stilinski household a few times in the next couple of weeks but didn’t venture inside. He saw the kid, Stiles, out by himself—which Peter doubted he actually was—and with his father he now recognised as one of colleagues of Talia’s husband. Which meant he had to be especially careful when—if, not when, Peter told himself—he would interact with the kid again. He didn’t need his pack to know about his little… side venture.

While the pack continued to act skittish around him due to Talia’s continued ill-will, the air in the pack house had settled. It didn’t help Peter much, but the open hostilities had mostly ceased. In a pack as close as the Hales, they were all quite sensitive to each other’s feelings and the alpha’s more than most. He knew not all of them blamed him or even knew of his ‘involvement’ but it didn’t stop him from resenting them all the same.

Yet he wouldn’t be the first person to apologise. He wasn’t in the wrong so why should he? If Talia wanted to throw away their relationship for a mistake _she_ made, _he_ wouldn’t go begging for a second chance.

He sat in the shadows of the preserve, watching while Stiles was drawing characters in the air above the ground. Something shifted in the air he could almost see something settle. Stiles jumped up and did a little dance, excitedly yapping about his apparent success. Peter tilted his head when he stopped, nodding at something he heard, and crouching down again. His hand traced a line on the dirt as if following instructions and now there was a flash of light and something that felt like condensed lightning lingered on his skin.

Stiles lifted his head. He stared straight into where Peter was hiding although not quite at the spot he was.

“Peter?” he called out but Peter was no longer there. He had already retreated, thinking on the exchange. This ‘Mietek’ was clearly something. His pack library hadn’t offered much on the topic but his former classmate, a literal witch of a woman, had and, apparently, he should be able to sense a necromancer and the cloying undertone in his scent. There was none in Stiles’, so at least he could cross that out.

Being possessed was still on it, now underlined for good measure.

It was possible that the spirit was one with good intentions—though Peter hadn’t heard of one before—but he wasn’t holding his breath. He could only continue his vigil and hope for the best. He could kill the kid and be done with that, but he was sure Marcus wouldn’t let it go and then Talia would find out and, well.

Peter did have his survival instincts intact, thank you very much.

And he still didn’t know about the supposed threat against his pack.

None of his contacts had heard anything when he prodded them lightly. Apparently the supernatural scene was mostly calm if not for the occasional conflict between hunters and supernatural, and some other cases between various factions littered across the United States. There was always something going on under the wraps but, this time, none of the gossip was of any use to him personally.

And that worried him. What could be a threat that he couldn’t pinpoint? He had taken into consideration that his senses had lied with the kid, but he didn’t think he had been wrong with him on this. The kid tried to hide it but he wore his heart in his sleeve. He was ridiculously easy to read but he probably couldn’t hope better for someone his age. He _was_ still in elementary school after all.

Not all could be like Peter anyway.

But if that was true, then he was at a loss and there was an active threat after his pack and that was something he couldn’t allow. He had to do something.

He sighed and steeled his spine while relaxing his appearance, seemingly becoming less threatening than he actually was. He stepped out from his hiding place, behind Stiles’ back.

“You called?”

The kid jumped and stumbled, falling face first into the mess of grass and moss under him. There was a leaf stuck to his temple when he rolled to sit and face Peter.

“You! You did this on purpose!” he accused him. Peter blinked innocently.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked. “I only heard you call my name and came to investigate.”

“Then the rune you taught me was—Mietek? Why are you—no, stop, stop laughing, you taught me a faulty rune! Mietek! This is not funny! _Stop it_!” Stiles gave Peter a pleading look. “Make him _stop_.”

Peter blinked again. Again he had no chance to say anything before Stiles began ranting at the air, that same one-sided argument he had had all those nights ago—and even when he hadn’t known Peter had been watching. If it was a con, it was a dedicated one. If it was possession, the idea of the victim being _taught_ something was terrifying.

But if it wasn’t…

Peter wasn’t in the habit of making hasty decisions. He would see how this would end and then make sure to accordingly no matter his personal feelings.

That was what he was good at anyway.

***

“…And then he just, just, told me to ‘believe in myself’ like a… like a bad thing. What’s a self-help book? Oh. Yeah, you’re one! Wait, you mean that?” Stiles rambled. To himself, to Mietek, or to Peter, there was no telling, but his mouth never shut. Peter was getting quite tired of it in any case.

“So, like, say, if I didn’t think it worked, I wouldn’t put the… mojo, I guess, in it? Enough for it to work? I need to be totally sure and then it would? Oh. Ooooooh. Why didn’t you say that in the beginning?!”

“And this is my cue to leave,” Peter said, standing up from his perch on Stiles’ chair. Even hitched to the highest setting, it was still too small for him and his back complained when he straightened it. “I’ll see you later, I guess.”

“Ah, all right?” Stiles said, blinking rapidly. His head was tilted away from Peter, a tell-tale sign that his attention was split between different fronts. Peter didn’t stay to listen for whatever there was Mietek wanted to tell him—he kept saying the weirdest things through the kid—and headed home. In the past week or two no one had wizened up to how Peter basically hung around the Stilinski household a couple of hours a day, least of all the actual owner.

Peter frowned as he threw on his helmet and jumped on his motorcycle, parked a few streets over. While it didn’t exactly worry him, he did admit he was… concerned. There he was, a kid without much contact with his only living parent and all too much with someone claiming to be sent by his dead mother. He knew the deputies’ hours were gruelling but he hadn’t known they were this awful.

Since his own studies had revealed annoyingly little, perhaps he could get some insight into Stiles’ situation if he…

He halted in the lights and waited for them to turn green again. The engine purred under him, pleasant and encouraging him to take a leap and _move_. He did. As soon as he saw the yellow flash, his engine roared alive and the barest hint of green got him halfway across the intersection. He could endure the side-eyes for this was something much better.

He wondered briefly if this felt anything like flying.

Thoughts swept away, he enjoyed the wind rushing in his ears and the heavy rumble against his body. The catharsis slowly bled away when the familiar sideroad leading to the Hale house came into view. The air slowly grew heavier as the road passed by far too quickly and then there he was, back at where he had started.

Peter parked near the entrance and left his helmet on the seat. Keys he tucked away but he didn’t care for the rest; it wasn’t supposed to rain this week at all. Even if it did, he was a wolf. He could manage.

There was little buzz for the time of the day which made Peter twitchier than usual. He tried to recall if there was anything happening today but his mind drew a blank. He wasn’t this much of an outsider even now. If the pack decided to go somewhere, they would have informed him—or he would have informed himself.

When his hand settled on the knob and he opened the door, the trepidation fell away quickly. He could hear noises at the back of the house. Laura and Cora were home and so was Derek, though he was upstairs, locked inside his room, no doubt. And Talia—

Came into the living room just as Peter stepped in himself. What ease he had felt melted away like yesterday’s snow at her pinched expression.

“Peter,” she barked.

“Talia,” he greeted return, wary. “What is it?”

Her expression tightened. “Where have you been?”

“Visiting.”

“Who?”

“A friend.”

Something in Talia’s face screamed she didn’t believe him. He didn’t know if he had believed himself either. His friends were notoriously out of town and he hadn’t yet shared his little extracurricular activities. She ignored that, however, in favour of throwing a pair of books on the table between them.

“I found these in your room,” she said, the silent order to explain hanging above them. Peter glanced at the books, attempting not to let his expression freeze the way his insides did.

“Spying, Talia?” he asked. “Taking a leaf out of my book, I see.”

“It’s not like you keep me informed otherwise,” she bit back. It was almost like their roles were reversed if not for how Peter still wasn’t on top of the issue.

“Just a little something to keep me occupied.” He didn’t make a move towards the books on necromancy and their implications towards magic. A bunch of rubbish they were, honestly. The only thing he could say was of relative use was a spell to anchor oneself to the realm of living after passing, hoping a worm moon wasn’t too far away for the body to waste away. In theory it sounded interesting and close to what Stiles’ Mietek had probably done but something about it didn’t sound right. For one the recipient should be unaware of its possession.

“It’s necromancy, Peter,” she said, voice just as tight as the lines around her eyes.

“I am not looking to use it, sister,” he replied. Her brows lifted.

Oh.

“You thought I was—” his voice trailed off. The glare directed at him certainly said so.

“You are not allowed to try your hand at it,” Talia ordered. Peter blinked.

“I’m not an idiot, no matter how much you might believe that. Why even would I—”

“Derek.”

Peter took a step back as if hit. Talia’s accusation bit his flesh and turned his skin cold. She really—he knew she blamed him for Paige, but to think she claimed he would resort to raising the dead to, what, get back into Derek’s, _her_ , favour?

“I wouldn’t,” he said numbly, unable to even form a coherent denial. “I’m not—I wouldn’t.”

Necromancy always demanded a sacrifice. With stakes so high on Paige’s death, it would take far too much to even attempt that. Surely Talia knew he wouldn’t—

He searched Talia for answers, but he could see none. Only unwelcoming winter greeted him there.

He did the only thing left for him to do.

Peter ran.

***

It was night when he finally emerged from the preserve. Poison spread through his veins slowly and his breath was laboured after hours and hours of running. He wasn’t even certain where he was anymore; he had made sure he himself had lost his tracks, making sure any possible trackers he might have had could only scratch their heads helplessly.

He almost thought he would have gone to the far end of the territory but… No. Instead, his feet had taken him to the centre of it. To Beacon Hills.

To where he knew the Stilinski household lingered.

Almost robotically he found himself walking towards the house he had visited… just few hours ago. Maybe. He had no concept of time, having lost it in the run.

Talia’s distrust _hurt_. He was her brother, for fuck’s sake, and she didn’t understand. He was starting to think she would _never_ understand him. It had been like this for years and years, possibly since he had been born. She never knew how to handle the kid their parents had late in their age. A surprise. Maybe even an unwelcome one.

Just the thought made his insides twist and a whine break out.

He stared at the second-story window he knew held Stiles’ room. He moved to grasp the tree he used to climb in and—his hand wasn’t there. He stared at the paw he could find, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Suddenly the world tilted and he found himself watching it two feet above what he had before, still crouching despite the change.

The change.

The window opened easily. It hadn’t been locked in weeks and it send a rush of warmth down his throat. He swallowed. His hands shook when he climbed in.

Stiles was sleeping. His bedding was haphazardly thrown on him and one of his legs was sticking out. There were no other signs of anyone in the house. Now that he thought of it, he hadn’t seen a car by the road or garage either. He was alone. _They_ were alone.

…What if it had been someone other than Peter climbing in?

Something stuck in his throat and he found himself unable to breath. He rushed forward and stopped just an inch away from touching the sleeping boy. Someone could have come in and hurt him and he wouldn’t have known until too late. Where—where was his father? Where was anyone in this boy’s _life_?

He crouched there for a long time. He lost the grasp of time again, staring at the young face unburdened by anything. His breath was light and soft, only a few mewls making their way into the still night.

A sudden sound of something falling caught Peter’s attention. His head turned around so quick his neck cracked. He stared at the pen that rolled once, twice, on the table before falling still again. He didn’t move his gaze, nails more like claws and teeth sharpening.

The pen rolled again before it moved upwards again, almost as if someone was holding it and having trouble with doing it. It shook and then it was hanging over an opened notebook with unintelligible scribbles he recognised as Stiles’ all over it.

The hovering pen fell down again but not before Peter could see another line of chicken scratch being written down.

_R U OK?_

Peter stared at the letters. They didn’t make sense to him for a long time. The pen. The paper. The letters.

He swallowed.

“Mietek?” he asked. He would have been surprised how dry his voice was, his throat was, if he wasn’t so intent on the curve of the question mark and words that clung to the page.

The pen rose again.

_YES_

“How…?” Peter couldn’t even finish his sentence. His gaze moved to the air between the notebook and the bed Stiles slept in on. He could still see nothing. But—

 _I DUNNO_ , Mietek wrote, the scribbling caught his attention again. _I CLDN’T GET UR ATTNTION. THIS IS HARD. I TOUCH STILES, I CAN TOUCH OTHER THNGS OR SMTH_

“You are real,” he whispered. He rubbed his eyes but when he looked again the words were still there. “You are really real.”

_DID U DOUBT THAT?_

“I thought you were a ghost,” he admitted. “That was possessing him.”

_RUDE, AM NOT. JUST_

The writing stopped and the pen hovered. Peter blinked. “Just?”

_IDK. THIS IS NEW TO ME TOO_

“You haven’t done this before?"

_I DND’T EVEN KNOW I COULD DO THIS. WRITE I MEAN_

“You…” Peter blinked again rapidly. “Why?”

_U LOOKED UPSET_

“I… am. Upset,” he confessed. He didn’t know why he told him—Mietek was a him, right?—that but it just slipped out. He was probably going crazy. He didn’t know why else—

 _Y_ , the pen wrote down before adding a _?_ after the letter.

“Why?” Peter repeated. “It’s… Talia. My sister.”

_THE ALPHA_

“Yes,” he said. “You knew?”

_I HEAR THINGS PPL DUN WANT ME TO HEAR_

“Because they can’t see you.”

_YES_

“What _are_ you?” Peter couldn’t help but ask. “Were you really sent here by his mother?”

The pen moved up and down as if the writer hesitated.

 _NO_ , it wrote down in the end. _BUT I WISH HIM NO HARM. HERE TO HELP_

“Him?”

_AND THE HALE PACK_

Peter frowned. He remembered their first conversation through Stiles and how he had said the same then. “What is coming to us?”

 _DANGER_ , Mietek wrote. _HUNTERS_

“Hunters? But we have been peaceful for decades!”

 _DON’T CARE. LOOKING FOR WEAK LINK,_ the pen wrote and then underlined twice the next word.

_DEREK_

Peter suddenly straightened from his position and hissed sharply, “They are coming for Derek?”

Stiles made a soft sound and Mietek hastily scribbled, _QUIET_ , and three exclamation points for good measure. Peter nodded once, a small twitch of a movement, and stayed silent until Stiles settled again.

 _NOT YET_ , Mietek finally answered. _STILL TIME. BUT SOON, AM KEEPING EYE ON IT. HELP STILES WITH RUNES, PROTECTION_

“You want to help us,” Peter concluded.

_YES_

“Will you tell me more?”

 _YES_ , Mietek wrote. _LATER, FOCUS ON U. TALK? I LISTEN_

Something inside Peter broke then. It was like the dam hiding all his restrained grief and anger overflowed and his mouth started speaking on its own, revealing all the injustices he had suffered at the hands on his pack and sister. The looks. The touches that wouldn’t meet skin anymore. The words that were spoken when they thought he wouldn’t hear.

The avoidance.

“…I never meant for Derek to go to Ennis,” Peter confessed when he had been wrung dry. “But he did and now we are both paying for it.”

_SORRY_

Peter shook his head. “You didn’t know.”

 _NO I_ , the pen paused and then wrote down again, _SORRY_

The sun peeked from behind the blinds and Peter suddenly realised it was morning. Stiles’ alarm would sound any minute now and he had been out… He checked the calendar. Only for one night.

“I need to go,” he said. He stood up and his knees protested the move.

The pen wrote down viciously. _COME BCK?_

“I… will,” Peter promised. He hesitated. “You can only touch things when you touch Stiles?”

_SO IT SEEMS. CAN’T MOVE TOO FAR EITHER. TRIED_

Peter nodded. It made sense, even if this wasn’t a possession or a regular haunting. Mietek was tied to Stiles and that had to have some caveats.

“Tomorrow night?”

_NOAH BACK AFTERNOON. NIGHT AFTER? TAKE PAPER WITH._

“Yeah, I—yes. I can do that.” Peter raised his hand but the pen was already writing.

BE CAREFUL, Mietek said. The pen hovered again before adding, U R NAKED

Peter looked down and he let out a sharp laugh. He was out of the window and running towards the woods before anyone else could see and Stiles could wake up, the ripped paper taken with him. He found his ripped pants on his way and chucked them on before taking up running again. He couldn’t remember how he had shifted from two legs to four, but he found himself unable to care. Even the stares his pack gave him didn’t hurt as much as they had just yesterday.

He soared.

***

Peter used the day to sleep and went out that afternoon again. He didn’t see Talia and the books he had had in his room weren’t there anymore. He suspected they were taken away either back to the library or, more likely, confiscated to Talia’s office. He didn’t care though; he had already read through them all. They were no more use to him.

He thought back to last night. Had it not been for the paper in his grasp, he would have thought it a dream. The chicken scratch proved him wrong. He still didn’t know whether he could trust Mietek—he didn’t trust what he couldn’t see—but he felt more… amicable towards the being.

It didn’t stop him from going around town, snooping. He couldn’t see nor smell anything that reminded him of hunters. No sign of gunpowder nor taste of wolfsbane in the air were there to be found, hidden underneath strong perfumes and scent-removing soaps.

Even his phone had gone off once and a witch had contacted him about an artefact that had been stolen from him. He promised to look into it if she agreed to the prices—a third prior to taking the job, the rest when it was done. She eagerly did, too eagerly. There was something fishy there. A challenge.

He grinned.

Talia had always scoffed at him going for the double degree of history and mythology, saying he would never pay off his student loans that were left after his scholarship with a degree like that.

No matter.

She was just bitter he was always better at treasure hunts and tracking than she ever was.

***

Peter went back the afternoon Mietek had indicated, to see yet another lesson he could only half understand. To rectify this, he filched a book on the runes, intent of understanding the magic that was being done. Just like promised, they were focused on protection, particularly large areas. With his newly armed knowledge, he even began to see them around the Stilinski house.

He made a note to look around when he returned to the Hale house that night.

“So if I draw a line here, it’d be sealing them in?” Stiles asked from thin air. He pointed to another spot. “But if I do it here, I would be keeping them out? Yeah, I know, that’s why I’m asking!”

“Are you planning on just waving me goodbye without saying anything?” Peter asked as he slid in. Stiles side-eyed him.

“We have a door,” he informed. Then his expression brightened. “Oh, a welcoming mat would be so cool! Do you think I could get one from the pet store? Also, Mietek told me to say that he’s not planning on ‘ghosting’ you, whatever that means.”

Peter gave the air a look, hoping it was received. Stiles gave him a thumbs-up.

“I sure hope not. I like breathing, thank you very much.”

“Oh!” Stiles turned to the same direction as Peter. “Can you even breath? Let me see your chest! Hey, no, don’t go, I just want to—” Stiles’ neck twisted to look at the ceiling. “I can still see you!”

“What does he look like?” Peter asked. He had been curious before but only enough to ask since the night before. Stiles squinted.

“Well,” he said, eyes flying with Mietek. “He’s tall. Like dad. And he has this brownish hair and a plaid shirt that’s kind of buttoned down but not. And pants. Jeans. Spotty jeans, kind of dirty-looking. And tattoos?”

Peter blinked. “Tattoos?” Really? A ghost-like being with tattoos?

“Well, they kind of look like runes and text mixed with runes but I can’t read them. And they are painted on skin. Can you do that?” Stiles started pouting. “He turned his back on me.”

“I’ve heard that can be done,” Peter said. “But then they’d be using themselves as a centre of a ritual and it’s risky. One wrong move and you are, well. Dead.”

“Is that why you died?” Stiles asked from the ceiling. He waited for an answer. “He’s not saying anything. Isn’t there a saying about silence and that making it true or something?”

“Silence is a sign of agreement.”

Stiles snapped his fingers. “That one. Oooh, that’s a glare! That’s—hey, _what_?” Stiles’ eyes widened and Peter saw his hair move as if by invisible mini-tornado making a mess of it. “ _You can touch me_?”

Peter kept quiet. He didn’t think it would be appreciated if anyone found out he had been naked in a kid’s room in the middle of the night. Now that he was in the right mindset again, he felt deeply disturbed himself of the fact.

“That’s… kind of cool,” Stiles said, listening to whatever Mietek was saying. “What else can you do? Oh. Right. But what if you could? It’d be neat! What’s with that face? It’s not possible? Hey, what are you—?”

They all heard it then, the door slamming shut. Peter blinked. Stiles blinked. They blinked at each other.

“Dad?” Stiles yelled suddenly. The noises downstairs stopped.

“Stiles?” Peter recognised the voice of Marcus’ colleague. “Why are you home already?”

Stiles jumped to his feet and rushed downstairs. The door creaked with the force it had been thrown open. “We had a half-day today! Mrs. Robinson was sick and they let us out early! Listen, hey, do you think we could drop by—”

His voice faded some when Peter gently pressed it close. He didn’t want to be seen even accidentally.

“So,” he said. He had no idea if Mietek was even there anymore. Maybe he had gone down with Stiles? How much did he have space to move? How bound was he? “Uh.”

For some reason he felt like he was being laughed at. He refused to comment on the weather or make some other inane sort of small talk. Or monologue. He wasn’t and idiot _or_ a villain. He leaned against the bed and let his head rest. The ceiling pattern was quite boring.

“I’m better,” he just said. “If you were wondering.”

He waited for a moment, feeling like the idiot he _wasn’t_ for waiting for an answer he couldn’t get, and then added, a little embarrassed, “Thank you.”

Five minutes of staring above him and then mentally critiquing the suboptimal selection on the bookcase and he finally heard the door go. Feet stomped back upstairs. Stiles blew inside the room and the door banged against the wall again.

“Your dad’s gone?” Peter asked. Stiles nodded as he walked to where he had been before, slumping on the floor ungracefully.

“He forgot his lunch. Dinner. Food,” Stiles answered. Some of his earlier cheer was gone. “He’s working nights the rest of the week.”

Leaving Stiles all alone at home, Peter noted. He didn’t say anything again; no doubt his words wouldn’t be appreciated. “Do you have anything to read on runes?”

“No,” Stiles said, sighing. “I’m just redrawing what Mietek tells me to.”

“If I got you a book,” he said. “Do you think that would be of use?”

“You have a book on these?!” Stiles sprung up and was on Peter’s feet in an instant. “Yes, please!”

“Well, that’s something I’ve never heard coming out of the mouth of an eight-year-old.”

“I’m nine!” Stiles insisted, as if that made a big difference. “And Mietek says it’s fine!”

Peter turned to the air. “I want it in writing.”

“What, why?” Stiles asked. His mouth formed a small pout. “Don’t you trust my word?”

“I don’t want to hinder your studies,” he merely said. He could see Stiles shiver a little and they both turned to where a pen was again hovering in the air.

Stiles mouth dropped open. “You can hold stuff too?!” he exclaimed loudly and jumped to his feet. The pen dropped suddenly. “Hold sti—what? Why? Oh. Oh! I forgot. Shut it! It’s stupid, that’s why! All right, all right, I’ll sit down, don’t nag at me!”

He did as apparently asked, and Peter picked up the pen from where it had fell a few feet away. He looked at it curiously and held it out. Peter felt a tug on the pen and let go of it. It hovered to a piece of paper almost overrun with illegible scribbles of an elementary schooler.

_IF U HAVE ANY YES PLZ_

Disgust filled with Peter. “At least use correct grammar while you request something.”

_Y? U DDN’T CMPLNG LAST TIM_

“So there’s a Tim now? We not special enough for you?” Peter mocked at the same time as Stiles started whining, “You didn’t tell me? I’m the one you’re attached to!” There was a short pause. “ _Stuck_ with? Rude!”

Peter gave Stiles the book he had carried with. “Handle it with care.”

“So cool,” Stiles whispered. Very unusual for a kid that young, he handled the book almost reverently. “It’s… look, Mietek! It’s like a—a diary or something! Of someone cool, like Professor McGonagall!”

“A research journal,” Peter corrected. Stiles shot him a narrowed look.

“Do you talk behind my back or something? Because you are too in sync.” He sent another glare somewhere on his right. “You don’t have a voice to sing.”

 _SEE THAT? WHERE DID I GO WRONG WITH RAISING HIM?_ Mietek wrote. Peter hid his smirk.

“I wonder.”

***

The book wasn’t, of course, an original that he had hunted down himself. He wouldn’t loan one to his family and an elementary school kid even less, ghostly guardian or no. Especially one with a possible case of possession. As the weeks stretched, it became less and less likely, however. There just weren’t any major signs of one, even after Peter left for a few days on that job of his.

For one, Stiles never forgot a thing. He kept crowing over the stupidest little things and babbling between him and Mietek. The strange touching related circumstance was another no; malevolent possessions usually included abnormal hauntings and things moving or being destroyed not within touching distance. Peter wondered if the spirits usually were just trying to be annoying or born drama queens. If that was true, then it was one strike against Mietek. Maybe.

But there had been one thing which cemented the idea that this situation was not something Peter had ever seen or read before, more so than the others. It had been a night after a particularly difficult day—Peter was not privy to the details but he knew they involved Stiles’ father—during which Peter had climbed in, only to see a pen write so hard on the paper it was a miracle it didn’t burst into flames.

“What is it?” he had asked quietly. The pen had stabbed aggressively towards Stiles and it was then, in the pale glow of the moon, that Peter had seen the silvery tracks on Stiles’ cheeks which had not yet dried. It had made his blood freeze in his veins before it had started simmering.

“Who?” he remembered asking between the grit of his teeth. The pen returned to the paper and the scribbling continued furiously. Suddenly it was over, and the pen dropped in order for Mietek to rip the piece of paper off the notebook and fold it once. It was then that the pen was picked up again and the notebook turned around for Peter to see.

 _TAKE THIS TO KITCHEN_ , Mietek wrote and the pen bobbed up and down over the folded piece of paper. _DON’T WAKE NOAH_

Peter hadn’t even realised someone else had been in the house. “He’s in the kitchen?”

_DRUNK. ASLEEP_

Peter’s lips formed a thin line as he kept himself from swearing. “Has this happened before?”

 _NO_ , Mietek said. _BUT IT WILL. STOP IT B4 IT DOES._ The paper was slid to him.

“Don’t use numbers as words, please,” Peter muttered, taking the piece of paper as asked.

 _I DO WAT I WNT 4EVER_ , the paper declared. When Peter made a move to open the fold, he felt his shirt move. There was a tug that looked weird, considering he couldn’t see the hand that did it.

_DON’T. PLEASE_

“You are asking a lot,” Peter said, half-mocking. The other half of him—more than a half if he was being honest—itched to read whatever Mietek had written for the idiot deputy downstairs.

I KNOW. There was a small pause before, PLEASE, was added.

“That’s twice you’ve said that,” he said. Suddenly his sleeve had been let go and a hand curled around his. It was a peculiar feeling. The hair on his arm rose and it felt almost like compressed, cold air was pressing against his flesh.

_I AM NOT BEGGING BUT NOT ABOVE IT EITHER_

“Fine,” Peter said. “Fine. But you will explain it to me later."

The air… twitched, for the lack of a better term. The pen tapped the table twice.

 _FINE_ , Mietek said. Peter nodded, although he noticed that no time frame had been established for the demand. He would just ask and hold this favour over Mietek’s head. A sudden idea formed in his head.

“You are using both of your hands for this,” he realised. “How are you touching Stiles? With your _foot_?”

The night table was close to the bed but not close enough to both hold Peter and the notebook without difficulty. Peter’s hand was instantly dropped and a huge middle finger was drawn on the leftover space on the page. Peter snickered at the mental image of a faceless man, stretching as far as he could to reach them all.

_STOP IT!_

Peter stood up. He smirked, ripping the pages with him as he had done once before as well. He saluted.

“Aye aye, sir,” he said and bowed before slipping out the door and downstairs. As soon as he hit the stairs a strong smell of alcohol hit his nostrils and his steps faltered. He stared at the low light that painted the floor leading to the kitchen.

He took another breath—a mistake—and marched on. His gait was silent and careful but as soon as he was by the doorway he knew it wouldn’t matter if he had walked in the front door and yodelled. Stiles’ father was fast asleep, his breath smelling even to where Peter was standing, one empty bottle of wine fallen on its side and another half-empty already. At least he was classy enough to use a glass—or a mug which read ‘1st Dad’ in childish handwriting that Peter knew was Stiles’.

He hadn’t felt this angry on behalf of anyone in a while. The feeling didn’t dissipate even when seeing the same dried tracks that had decorated Stiles’ cheeks. If he wasn’t sure—

The rustle of the paper in his hand made him realise he had crumbled Mietek’s note. He smoothed it out and stared at it, wanting to unfold it and see whatever had been written on it. Mietek had said this might stop whatever was going on with the Stilinskis. He had known Stiles’ father hadn’t been home much—he had seen how much the kid missed him—but he wasn’t a drunkard, apparently. Yet. But had the possibility to be.

He blinked.

How had Mietek known that? He wasn’t and never been in contact with Stiles’ mother. He hadn’t been with him for long either, so he couldn’t know Noah well either. Did he have his own experiences with drunks and grieving families?

His own, perhaps?

The paper burned in his grip but, with strength of will he knew he had but didn’t realise he had the restrain for, set it down next to the mug. It was almost full. At least he knew Stiles’ father wouldn’t get alcohol poisoning tonight; at worst, a man his size, would get a splitting hangover and perhaps a trip or two to the bathroom.

He pondered his options and took the bottle, tipping it over the sink and watching the liquid flow down the drain. He placed it back to the table, quietly crushing the mouth with a kitchen towel and leaving shards of glass littering the surface. He sucked in his cheeks and considered the scene. He took the mug as well, pouring half of the wine in front of Noah and the rest down the sink. He set it further away from Noah, just in case, like it had rolled over and spilled its contents on its way.

It wouldn’t do if it broke when he finally woke.

Satisfied, he left the scene and started his jog home. It was almost full moon. He would have to go on a run soon but whether it would be with his family or not, he didn’t know.

Guess he would find that in a few days.

(He absently wondered why the thought didn’t hurt as much anymore.)

He stripped when he reached the preserve, stuffing his clothes into his bag, and took off with a smooth transition to four legs, enjoying the night breeze in his fur and the rustle of the leaves welcoming him back.

(He decided it didn’t matter.)

***

The next day, however, the thought returned and didn’t leave him alone. He didn’t intend, or want, to become indifferent with his pack. They were his family, no matter the recent changed in their relations nor the company he kept. He _cared_ about them. Well, most of them. Some of them.

A few of them?

Peter frowned at his breakfast. His cousins squabbled next to him, but he didn’t pay them any attention, only swirled his ever-soggier cereal in the milk.

No, he cared about them, he thought. He had begun distancing himself, however, which… wasn’t ideal. He wasn’t about to become estranged from his pack; he had heard of what happened to wolves that were. They were weak and barely there, some even becoming insane if they were left on their own long enough for the bonds to break in the worst-case scenario. He knew that would never happen to him; no, even Talia wouldn’t let it go that far, no matter what their particular conflicts were at the time.

They were pack. Even more so, they were _family_.

And Peter wasn’t about to forget it.

A spoon landed on his bowl and splashed milk all over his shirt. He slowly turned to look at Jaime and Michael and watched as the two of them froze, Michael still in possession of his spoon and plate which were brandished like a sword and a shield. Poor Jaime only had his teacup with him. Peter watched as he audibly swallowed.

“Sorry?” the six-year-old squeaked. Peter pointed at the door and, in a flash, the twins disappeared. Peter wondered when they’d realise they had taken their dishes with them. He sighed.

This was why he preferred Derek and Cora to the rest of the children. They were kids but they had _sense_. Except…

Except.

Peter rose, his chair cluttering on the floor in his haste. He dumped the rest of his cereal in the sink, uncaring of the mess. He had better things to do than worry about a few pieces of soft wholegrain rings. He walked upstairs, the conversation quieting as he walked past the living room. He could feel their eyes on his back but he merely raised his head and continued on his way.

He knew his pack cared about him as well. They were wise not to raise hell against the alpha over something so… insignificant. They were right to worry about the current weakest link and not the one who had proven himself time and again. He knew that.

It still hurt.

He came to a stop outside the door that led to Derek’s room. He could hear the boy inside, figuratively locked in as he always was. He hadn’t come out much, barely returning to school before he was back inside his room again. Peter knew Talia had gotten calls from the school, suggestions of therapy and other such kinds of things.

Problem was, they wouldn’t understand. Even after they had gotten hold of a supernaturally-inclined shrink, Derek hadn’t moved, not even under the orders of his mother and alpha. Se they had let him be, hoping he’d open up to them on his own.

It had been weeks and it still hadn’t happened.

Quite frankly, after seeing what grief done to the Stilinskis, Peter had less interest in seeing what disastrous things Derek could be drawn into. He couldn’t go for substance abuse but there were far more horrifying things in the world than alcohol and drugs.

Without giving it another thought, he opened the door and stepped in, closing it behind him immediately. His nose twitched when the smell of unwashed clothes and sweat surrounded him. It wasn’t strong enough to make him gag—someone probably cleaned Derek’s room at least once a week—but Derek was part of the basketball club. He was bound to have all sorts of smells over him after each practice. Peter should know, he had been the captain during his high school years.

Derek was a lump on the bed, still dressed in his dirty clothes, and the sheets, what he could smell, hadn’t been changed in a while; probably the only thing the pack hadn’t touched. A wolf’s bed and the scents in it were sacred, after all.

“Derek.”

“Go away.”

Peter sighed. He rolled his shoulders and with three long strides he was next to Derek’s bed, grabbing the pile of blankets that hid his useless nephew and toppled him off to meet the floor. Derek went with a squawk and flailing limbs that reminded Peter of Stiles—or did Stiles remind him of Derek? No, it was the other way around, he decided, watching as Derek bit out curses and tried to disentangle himself from the mess.

Stiles would have made his way out already like the escape artist he was.

“Why can’t you just _leave_?!” Derek screamed after finally managing to get himself out of his blanket prison. “Are you trying to ruin the rest of my life too?”

The words hit Peter in the face worse than anything he had previously experienced. He knew he had done the right thing, but perhaps there had been more he could have—

He couldn’t afford to think like that. If he did, he would lose, and Peter always came out on top.

 _Always_.

“Don’t be obtuse, nephew,” he replied sharply. The glare sent his way, filled with neon blue, cut deep and left him bleeding. He refused to show it. “I told you to go to _the_ alpha, not an alpha. Since when does a visiting alpha count as your own?”

The projected calm of his voice was heavy. Derek breathed harshly and Peter could see the animal inside them was close to the surface. Out of all Talia’s children, Derek’s control had always been the worst, wearing his emotions on his sleeve.

Peter continued his relentless assault, poking the beast, “Because of your actions, your little sweetheart now lies six feet under. Admit it, deal with it, move on. No, you shouldn’t have done it. We both know that now, don’t we?” Derek’s eyes glowed brighter than before and his snarl revealed his sharp teeth. Peter pressed on, “In your puppy crush, you forgot the one rule. We are predators, but we don’t have to be killers. Uninvolved humans are prey in comparison; they never fit and rarely turn.”

Peter’s smirk was all winter’s bite.

“Just like darling little Paige.”

Derek let out a loud bellow and threw himself at Peter. He tried to claw him and bite wherever he could, all rage but no skill; it all had been eaten away by the anger within. Peter took him on with calm and precision that belied his shifted countenance. He let some of Derek’s hits past his guard but only on the surface, reinforcing the feebleness of Derek’s fury. The bitter snarls and grief-filled howls shook the furniture and Peter knew that if there were actually any screams of pain that the door would fly open and it would all be over.

Peter couldn’t let that happen. He needed to bleed the poison out of Derek’s veins before it did more damage than the pack could heal. Because he knew that, while Derek was strong, he was also the weakest. Mietek’s words had plagued him during the darkest of hours and he would _not_ let it happen, whatever Mietek knew could happen.

(He knew way too much, Peter privately thought, and he _would_ find out _why_.)

Peter stood steadfast, weathering the rage that was all Derek, until his nephew fell on the floor panting and crying, no strength left. Peter glanced at his arms and the shirt that was in tatters, feeling his wounds heal until the stain of blood was the only thing remaining.

His gaze flickered on the prone figure below him, Derek’s head tilted up to meet Peter’s. The supernatural blue was gone, leaving behind tear-filled hazel and palpable grief.

Peter kneeled. He shrugged off his shirt and took Derek’s hand in his, wiping away the blood with what was left of his once-favourite V-neck.

“We need to be better than the animal,” he said. “And let no misunderstanding break us, no matter how heart-rending. Paige was an accident and Ennis shouldn’t have taken advantage of your naivety. But what is done is done. We only need to learn from our mistakes and never repeat them.”

He changed Derek’s hands and continued, his touch gentle, “You wouldn’t want her death to be in vain, do you?”

“I wanted her to be happy,” Derek whispered. “I wanted her to be happy with _me_.”

Peter tossed his shirt away and pulled Derek to him. His stuttering breath tickled Peter’s ear. “I know. I am sorry for your loss.”

“I was so, _so_ stupid. I _killed_ her.”

“You did,” Peter said, and Derek flinched against him. “But you also ended her suffering. Should she have died? No. But she did, and I doubt she would want you to besmirch her name like this.”

Derek sobbed and clutched at him, his tears wetting Peter’s bare skin until he fell into an exhausted sleep. Peter carried him to his bed—it did smell awful—and covered him until only his head could be seen. There were lines of exhaustion over his face and shine all over them; Peter wiped the tracks the tears had left away.

He had seen far too many of them as of late.

He grabbed his shirt and opened the door. He met Talia’s eyes, no sign of the burning red in sight. She turned around and left towards her office.

“Come.”

And Peter followed, closing the door after his wide-eyed nieces rushed in past him.

***

The following conversation left a bad taste in Peter’s mouth, but that was nothing new. A truce had been established between them and the next full moon was more like the ones the pack had shared before the… event. With what Talia had heard of his and Derek’s conversation and the truth by Derek’s admission, she had been forced to accept she had been in the wrong. While Peter knew she had mostly blamed him because she the impotence she had felt with Derek, he was spiteful enough to throw it back on her face and accept her apology only to remind her he was better than she had been.

Talia and he were cut from the same tree, after all, only different branches; all was forgiven, but never forgotten. Just as everything else between them.

“What of your research?” she had then asked, demanded really, but Peter had just stuck up his nose and flounced off, throwing his answer over his shoulder without even a look back:

“I’ll tell you when you need to know.”

And that was that.

His aunt nipped at his heels and he jumped over his nieces, leaving them at her mercy. Even Laura had now been able to calm down and, unlike her mother, her apology had been sincere. Her he could forgive without a second thought. It wasn’t her fault that the bond she shared with her alpha as the chosen heir bled between them.

Cora bounced after him, barely able to keep up with her short legs. To her delight, he shifted entirely into a wolf and she jumped on top of him, clutching at the skin around his nape, and he ran past the rest of them, leaving them to eat dust. On his way past Talia, he could see the pride and envy directed at him; after all, he had been able to change even without the alpha spark she inherited from their mother.

There was a reason he was their mother’s child after all.

(Neither knew if, perhaps, had they been closer in age, Peter could have been the one their mother had chosen. Peter was just glad he could steal this last bit of hers back.)

(Talia had always been their father’s pride and joy. Peter deserved all he could from their mother.)

He howled and Cora howled with him. The rest of the pack answered, Talia with them. The pack was whole and together again. The full moon smiled down upon her children.

The run was on.

***

It had become more difficult to go over to the Stilinskis lately. As promised, Noah seemed to have gotten a grip on himself and was spending more time home than before or was timing his shifts so that he spent more time with Stiles than not. Peter was glad for Stiles, of course. It was better for the kid’s mental health to have his dad with him. He was certain it was better for Noah as well.

But there was still the fact that he had gotten used to spending time with Stiles and Mietek, and this was certainly putting a damper on it. He almost missed the quips exchanged with the ghostly being and even helping Stiles out with his studies. Apparently Mietek wasn’t as great with ancient languages as Peter. This had caused plenty of crude figures being drawn and hidden before Stiles could see them. It had become a game before Peter had missed one and Noah had seen it, blaming Stiles.

Peter swore he had heard indignant screams as he had neared the edge of the preserve.

Peter slid inside, a little disappointed that Stiles was already fast asleep, but also looking forward to talking with Mietek again. He glanced around, making sure the door was shut and he could hear no one awake, before closing the window with a soft click.

The pen was already scribbling on a piece of paper when Peter crouched next to Stiles’ bed.

_WHAT’S UP, BUTTERCUP?_

“Doing fine, Clementine,” Peter murmured and the pen _shook_. His mouth twisted into a little smirk.

 _A JOKE!_ Mietek’s ‘a’ could barely be recognised with how squiggly it got. _WOLF GOT JOKES!_

Peter rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why I take time to come here,” he made a show of getting up although he didn’t move from his crouch. “It’s not like I am appreciated for who I am or anything.”

The pen shook some more and almost fell on the floor, but invisible hands managed to catch it before it did.

 _WHAT DO YOU EVEN DO?_ Mietek wrote after his grip steadied and he, probably, got over his fit. _SHOULDN’T YOU BE IN COLLEGE OR SOMETHING?_

“I graduated, thank you very much.”

_OH, SOMEONE WENT IN WAY TOO HARD AND FORGOT HIS DAILY DOSE OF FUN. A JOB THEN?_

“Since when is a job considered ‘fun’ and not just a grind to achieve what little coins we can to survive in this mad, mad world?” Peter said, placing a hand over his chest. The pen pointed at him and wiggled from side to side. He merely raised his brows before snorting and saying, “I am between jobs.”

_ISN’T THAT JUST A FANCY WAY OF SAYING YOU ARE UNEMPLOYED?_

“I am self-employed, you faithless heathen.” Peter stretched on his perch. “And a bit of downtime has never hurt any.”

_I DON’T THINK SITTING ON YOUR BUTT SUITS YOU_

“And you know me so well?”

The pen tapped the paper. Somehow it managed to feel condescending.

_YOUR ASS WOULDN’T LOOK HALF AS GOOD IF YOU DID_

“Why, Mister Mietek,” Peter fanned himself. “You haven’t even taken me out once!”

 _SOMEHOW_ , Mietek started before scratching over the word. The pen hovered and Peter felt immense satisfaction at managing to make the man speechless. _YOU ASS_

“You needn’t praise it so, my, I will blush!”

He grabbed the pen thrown his way with a snicker. Then the whole notebook was aimed at his face as well which he fumbled with, barely managing to stop it from clattering on the floor. He still knocked the corner of the table but, luckily, Stiles only turned to his side with a groan.

“Do you intend to wake the whole household?” he inquired and placed the writing equipment down again even if he felt he was just returning ammunition to the opposing army. The pen’s sharp end was pointed at him threateningly before it returned to the half-full page.

_NOAH IS WORKING_

Peter was instantly dismayed. He had thought he had heard someone breathing downstairs. “I thought you worked it out?”

_DID. WAS HERE EARLIER, GOT CALLED OUT_

“Then who’s downstairs?”

_BABYSITTER_

Peter couldn’t help it. He snorted. “Stiles didn’t appreciate that, now did he?”

_NOT REALLY. IT WAS FUNNY THO_

“At least he didn’t leave his kid alone again.”

 _THAT,_ Mietek wrote, and then added, _ARE YOU SAYING I’M JUST AIR TO YOU?_

“Like the freshest of breaths,” Peter assured him. The pen shook again, and he grinned a little too. Then he grew serious. “Are you certain he’s getting over himself?”

_YES. THE MESSAGE HELPED_

“What did you say?”

There was a brief pause before Mietek wrote, _YOU DIDN’T LOOK?_

Peter frowned. He didn’t like what that implicated because, even if he _had_ considered it, it didn’t mean he had actually gone through with it. “No,” he just said shortly.

 _SORRY_. If there was a way for writing to sound contrite, Mietek managed it. _I JUST TOLD HIM THAT STILES NEEDED HIM AND HE NEEDED HIM TOO AND SIGNED IT WITH SOMETHING ONLY CLAUDIA KNEW_

“So you first pretended to be sent by the kid’s mom and then to _be_ said mother?” Peter asked dryly. “At this point I don’t even know if you are what you say you are. Or do you just have an identity crisis of sort?”

 _RUDE! I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW I AM A HEALTHY 23YO MAN IN HIS PRIME_ , Mietek wrote and then added _!!!_ to the end.

“Apparently death is the new fashion then.”

There was another pause. _I WILL KILL YOU_ , Mietek wrote, slow and careful.

“I am sure I will put every being in shame in the afterlife should something as unlikely as that happen.”

He got the pen sent at his head again with half of the other contents on the night table. He took off, laughing, after he heard the babysitter wake downstairs. Stiles, the unfortunate—or fortunate—lad, just kept on dreaming.

Peter heard a shrill scream after something heavy hit the windowsill and Stiles’ confused murmurs.

He was rather certain the girl wasn’t coming back to the haunted Stilinski house again.

***

Four days later—Peter had taken Derek out on a small job of his for the weekend, given his lapse to gloom and doom—he found Stiles at the edge of the preserve, sitting on the ground and tracing runes carefully like he had that day before Peter had really started to spend time with him and his ghostly friend.

“Moving onto the large area protections?” he asked as he stepped into the bushes with him. He assumed Mietek was somewhere around them; he rarely left Stiles’ side, the restrictions aside.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, wiping his brows. His tone was clipped even as he added, “Mietek said I should try to see how runes fare in something other than paper.”

“Wise, that. They rarely are painted on paper; too noticeable.”

“Yeah, I get that. It’s just so annoying that they fade away so quickly…” he mumbled, intense focus tightening his features. He waved his hand distractedly. “Just go ahead and talk behind my back. ‘s not like you don’t do it anyway.”

Peter blinked. Where had that attitude come from? His attention focused on the familiar notebook on the ground and the pen moving with it.

_HE CONNECTED THE MESS TO US_

“Sorry about that,” Peter said after he read the note. Stiles turned his head around and squinted at him.

“No, you are not,” he stated. Peter was taken by surprise again—the flat tone was disconcerting—but then Stiles turned back to his work again. “And keep it to your writing. I’m trying to focus here.”

DID HE BECOME A TEENAGER OVER THE WEEKEND? Peter wrote carefully, glancing at the crouching and mumbling kid.

_HE’S BEEN IN A MOOD SINCE MINDY MADE A SHOW AND NOAH HAD TO BE CALLED HOME TO CHECK THE CLOSETS AND ALL FOR GHOSTS. HILARIOUS, OFC, BUT TOO MUCH_

“Right,” Peter mumbled. HOW ARE THE RUNES COMING ALONG?

_LOOK FOR YOURSELF_

Peter did. He watched how Stiles tirelessly wrote the runes over and over again, erasing them and starting anew, only moving from ground to bark when he knew he could draw them with his eyes shut.

HE IS GOOD

 _ISN’T HE?_ Mietek sounded proud even through his atrocious handwriting. _I’M GOING TO BE SAD TO LEAVE HIM_

Peter’s head snapped to where he assumed Mietek’s face was. Just as always, he only saw the world around them. WHAT? he wrote slowly, eyes flicking on Stiles’ back.

 _I NEED TO GO HOME_ , came the answer. _NOT YET, BUT SOON_

Peter blinked. Suddenly their conversations, all the little hints, made sense.

YOU ARE NOT DEAD.

The pen paused, then appeared to point where Mietek was, but Peter wasn’t listening to the confused little cues. He wasn’t—or perhaps he was. But he meant to go home. Home wasn’t afterlife; it was already confirmed. Even if he was more ghost than anything else, it didn’t mean he was one. This was why it never looked like a possession. It wasn’t in the truest sense. For some reason, Mietek’s soul had latched onto Stiles’. They had a connection. Peter would have said it was the spark they shared but Mietek knew too much about them, about Claudia, the Hale pack even, for it to be a mere coincidence. And hadn’t Mietek confirmed he had come to Stiles specifically?

He wasn’t dead.

He was _displaced_.

“Stiles,” Peter murmured, staring straight ahead. The pen fell.

It was the only confirmation Peter needed.

Stiles looked over his shoulder. “What?” he asked. Peter shook his head slowly.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just thought I saw someone coming over but was mistaken.”

“Cool.” Stiles looked around. “Where did Mietek go?”

Peter shrugged and tore the page off. “You are the one who sees him.”

Stiles looked at him as he tried to squint at his soul, but Peter knew at least his was safely hidden inside the meat and bone of his body. He stood up, making a show of stretching his limbs.

“I got to go, I need to pick up my niece,” he lied smoothly. “Say hi to him when he comes back, ok?”

“Sure,” Stiles drawled. “And if you come in at night, please don’t do anything creepy again. My dad’s getting weird about letting me stay home alone.”

Peter gave him a mocking salute and then walked away, letting him stay to practice his work. Millions of thoughts sped through his mind and questions bundled up until they formed blockades and the sheer amount of _unknowing_ was making his head hurt.

He had to—he might have to call in a favour. The witch owed him one after he almost died getting her ancestors’ precious carved dagger. She fucking knew the gnomes had attached themselves to it; he fucking hated gnomes. They were stupid and they were many and their brainpower _definitely_ didn’t multiply in a group.

Their sharp teeth did, unfortunately.

He paused and nodded to himself, garnering a few curious looks from the passers-by. He would do so immediately.

And then he would go back tonight and force Mietek— _Stiles_ —to speak the truth and only the truth.

***

He had to wait three more days before he finally made his way inside the Stilinski house. Noah had always been home these past few days—his days off apparently—and Talia had commanded his attention during the days anyway. Not that he minded, this time; he got to tear Ennis a new one while Talia acted as if justice was served, high and mighty at the pack meeting, legitimising their act of revenge.

Derek had even smiled after he received the news, so Peter counted that as a double win in his books.

Stiles was still awake when he climbed in, smirking at him from his position on the bed. Peter followed his eyes on the welcoming mat underneath the window.

“’Wipe your paws’,” he read. He grinned. “I like that.”

“Good. I got it just for you,” Stiles beamed. He had apparently recovered from this early bout of teenage rebellion. “I managed to carve the runes perfectly on the bark yesterday!”

Peter walked up to him and ruffled his hair, the little there was. Somehow Stiles’ grin seemed to widen. “Good work,” he praised. “Do you think you could make them around the preserve?”

Stiles blinked rapidly several times. “What?”

“Our own protections are rather lacklustre,” Peter said, shrugging.

Stiles looked doubtful. “You are werewolves, right? Couldn’t you just ‘rawr, I’ll tear your limbs from you’ at them?”

Peter gave him his best unimpressed look. He managed to make Stiles look chagrined, but just barely. He took it as a win; the boy knew no shame.

There was a reason he liked him.

“My sister is of that mindset, certainly,” Peter said. “But I prefer being cautious rather than dying because I wasn’t. Wouldn’t you?”

Stiles pretended to think. “Well. When you put it like that…”

“I do. Do you have an early morning tomorrow?”

The face he got as answer told tales. Peter felt his lips twitch. “Off you go. I need to speak with Mietek. Is he here?”

“Yeah. He’s been real jumpy lately, like there’s a ghost around or something.”

Peter couldn’t help the snicker. Stiles joined him. “Right?” he said, his head tilting upwards. “I told you it’s funny!”

“No doubt he just has no appreciation for good puns,” Peter said magnanimously. “Now, bed.”

Stiles pouted but the yawn he swallowed couldn’t have been more obvious. Peter raised his brows at him.

“Fiiiiiiiiiine,” Stiles said. He burrowed into his blankets. Peter sat down on the floor. When Stiles spoke again, he sounded like he was on the edge of sleep.

“Your niece is weird.”

Peter blinked. “What?” he questioned. Stiles just hummed and Peter heard his breathing pattern even. Typical. He closed his eyes. He just sat there for a while, listening to the small puffs that filled the silence.

“Are you going to ignore what happened last time?”

The silence went on without a break. He sighed. “I know you are here. I can’t see you, but I know. You are probably biting your lip and scowling and now your lips mould into a pout. You are going to be quiet just to show me you can. Ignore me. Even though I have answers you need.”

There wasn’t even a shift in the air, but Peter swore he felt the change.

“Time travel,” he said. His eyes blinked open as he tilted his head towards Stiles’ sleeping body. “You are not the first to attempt it nor survive.”

For a moment there was nothing but, then, the pen he had become so familiar with rose.

 “Still.” Peter leaned against the closet. “It has been… illuminating.”

The pen scratched something, paused, and then scratched some more. Peter reached for the paper when it didn’t move for a few seconds.

It read, WEIRDO. NOT A LAMP

Peter smiled, passing the paper back and moving into a crouch. “But you did light the way for me get back into my family’s good graces, unintentionally or not.”

The pen flailed in the air and the next words were bolder than the rest.

HOW?? When Peter just shrugged, Mietek continued, I HAD A PLAN AND ALL. YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!

Peter’s brows raised. “Because I fixed things on my own?”

YES!!! The word was also underlined several times. Peter could imagine how he felt like. Still—

“Shouldn’t this be a good thing?” he asked dryly. “You don’t have to worry about the Hales. We are doing well. Derek too.”

OFC, Mietek wrote. Somehow the words managed to sound condescending even written. BUT NOW I DON’T KNOW WHERE AND WHEN THE HUNTERS WILL STRIKE

Peter was suddenly alert. The pen bobbed, the movement imitating a nod. I WOULD HAVE EXPLAINED THE MOMENT THEY ARRIVED, Mietek said, BUT NOW I DON’T KNOW WHO THEY WILL TARGET

Peter frowned. He stood straight again, arms crossing.

“I had been thinking,” he said. “That you knew far too much to be a regular spirit. You had somehow managed to tie yourself to a kid, making him help us in your stead—which I am grateful, the protections around the pack house and the lands aren’t as good as they should be—but somehow it seemed that you managed to know things that hadn’t happened yet… And not even the afterlife has that great a twenty-twenty.” He rolled his shoulders. “Especially one who hadn’t been here for long according to his own words.”

The pen faltered and then fell down. Suddenly Peter had no idea where to look, where Mietek had gone, if he had fled the scene. He scowled. When no one picked it up, he rolled his eyes.

“How childish.”

He stood up, stretching, and walked around the room. The pictures on the wall were filled with superheroes and figures mostly from cartoons. It was messy in that every surface was filled with papers, drawings and books but at least the floor was clear. His ears picked up the quiet scratching and he turned back to the night table.

_FINE. U R RIGHT. WAT DO U NO?_

Peter groaned. “Spelling, Mie—Stiles. Spelling.”

_JUST CALL ME MIETEK, EASIER_

“Less confusing, admittedly,” Peter said. “What did you really come here to do?”

_DIDN’T LIE. SAVING YOUR PACK. TUMBLEDOWN TO HELLMOUTH OTHERWISE_

“The hunters,” Peter murmured.

_AND UNCHECKED NEMETON. WHICH, THERE’S A NOGITSUNE THERE, NEEDS PURIFICATION_

Peter stiffened. “If I didn’t know who you are, I would have killed you for that.”

_WHY DO YOU THINK I DIDN’T TELL YOU?_

“Point.”

_ALSO CAN’T KILL A GHOST._

“You are not dead,” Peter said. “Merely displaced.”

_I KNOW. HOW TO GET BACK?_

Peter grimaced. “That… might not be possible.”

The pen wavered. _WHAT?_

“From the favours I called, no one knew the way back,” he said. “And from what I found I doubt there even is one.” He watched the pen but it didn’t dip towards the paper. Just hovered sadly. “The people—and there were only three possible cases that I could find but none went back. Two managed to merge with their past selves but the last one crashed and burned, driving her past self mad. That was at least what her sister made out from the rambles before she killed herself.”

Peter watched as the pen flew around like Mietek had turned towards Stiles. He smiled, glad to know he wasn’t wrong about him. “Don’t worry, he’s fine. Doesn’t have any aftereffects that I can see.”

_YOU ARE SURE?_

Peter nodded. “Yes. Do you know why you didn’t merge with him?

_SUSPECT. WE ARE SPARKS. WE SHARE MAGIC. SPARK MERGED, LEAVING INTRUDER OUT_

Peter hummed, tapping his chin. “That makes sense,” he admitted. “The ones who had gone back weren’t magic users. The one who went mad probably was; her sister was a druid, which is why I could even find the logs.”

_A DARACH?_

“The one who came back?” The pen nodded. “Possibly.”

 _MAKES SENSE_ , Mietek echoed Peter’s words. _THE NOT COMPATIBLE EXTRA I HAVE PROB KEEPS ME ALIVE AND TIED_

“Tied?”

_CAN’T GO TOO FAR FROM HIM_

“Does he know?”

_NO_

Peter nodded. “I think the problem of going back isn’t because they didn’t find out how. There have been cases of people disappearing completely, without a trace, after doing very uncharacteristic things only to be found dead. I’d say drugs but they don’t work on supernatural. I think some of them did try to go back but the future they were in disappeared or a new dimension was created, which ripped the time-space continuum apart. Since we aren’t all dead, I suspect the first.”

The pen didn’t move for a few minutes except swayed in the air. Peter let Mietek absorb the news, going back to watching the walls. Both Marvel and DC? At least he couldn’t say Stiles discriminated.

 _BETTER THAN NOTHING_ , Mietek wrote in the end _. I’LL TAKE IT. AM I STUCK LIKE THIS FOREVER?_

“That,” Peter said. “I think we can do something about.”

_REALLY?_

“You said Stiles’, your, spark keeps you alive?” When the pen scratched a _YES_ , he continued, “Then I think we can use it to return you to the world of living too. We just need to create you a vessel. There is a possibility that you lose your magic, considering—”

 _I DON’T CARE_ , Mietek wrote. _STILES CAN KEEP IT. GOD KNOWS HE DOES MORE GOOD WITH IT THAN I EVER DID_

“Alright then,” Peter said. He smiled, slightly eager, because no one had ever— “I have a theory.”

The pen hovered and then, with a flourish, wrote:

_TELL ME MORE_


	3. Stiles

“Why do you smell like my uncle?”

Stiles flailed and almost tripped over his feet. Thankfully Mietek wasn’t there to see it, he would never hear the end of it. Thankfully he preferred to stay away from his classes, coming around at lunch if then. Stiles never really found out what he liked to do during his classes. Fly around? That was a good way to spend time. He wanted to fly too. Turning back, he saw Cora somehow staring down at him despite being taller than her. He’d have almost forgotten she was there if not for the piercing glare she had been sending him for days, even weeks.

“Because I know him?” he hazarded. Somehow that didn’t make Cora look any less unimpressed. Was that a Hale trait?

“Why.”

Now there wasn’t even punctuation! They were devolving! Or was Peter just a better model? Do their vocabulary grow as they do?

“Grammar,” he blurted, and then winced. Cora didn’t even blink at him. “I, uh. He’s helping me with, ah. Extracurricular activities?”

“You’re not in any club.”

“No?” Cora stared. He swallowed. “No, I’m not. Yet. But he and you are,” he lowered his voice, “in the Moon Club.” With all the capital letters and air quotation marks.

Cora’s eyes immediately narrowed into slits and Stiles recognised with some long-forgotten instinct that he was one moment from getting murdered.

“He told me!” Stiles squeaked. “I have magic and he found out and decided to help me _not get killed_.” Or something along those lines. Emphasis on _not_ and _killed_. Stiles was sure if it had been just him and Mietek they would have managed to blow something up. Before the books, now plural, Peter gave him, they had been winging it, sort of. Mietek was a fantastic guide and all but his style was like he had never gone to Hogwarts for it. Not that he had either, but he wasn’t eleven yet. Hmm?

“Do you think I could get a Hogwarts letter?” he wondered aloud.

Cora rolled her eyes at him. She looked so much like Peter like that and it made Stiles feel _weird_ , but at least she didn’t look like she wanted to bury him dead. Progress? And now he had a feeling he had forgotten something this morning. How annoying. That was going to bother him the rest of the day!

“No,” she said, annoyed. Rude. He could totally get in— “Besides, even if that was real, do you really think only Europe had magic schools?”

That gave Stiles a pause. “An American magic school?” he murmured.

Cora nodded, her expression serious. “They can have their boring Merlins and walking suits of armour. Imagine what the Native American tales could have for us.”

Stiles did. Imagine it, that was.

And it was _glorious_.

“I want to go there,” he whispered fervently. He grabbed Cora by her hands, grin plastered on his face that he couldn’t wipe away no matter what. “Is there one? No, don’t say, probably not, right? Do you want to create one? We can make a school like that! For everyone! Imagine, no chemistry but potions! Astrology! You would ace the Magical Creatures class! Or—or folk tales! You probably know tons already!”

Cora stared at their hands and then at Stiles. She said, “Not for muggles. Not yet.”

Stiles considered it for a moment and nodded. “We need to start small. With a club? I want a club. Be in a club. Not just for you Mooners though. Short name. Like DA but, like, for us. Because we are not an army and we don’t have a Dumbledore, we are something _better_.” He nodded again and his cheeks hurt. “Then when we are establered, we can turn others! Beacon Hills can be our Hogsmeade! Honeyduke’s. The bakery on the fifth could work? I want some.” He really did.

“Established,” Cora corrected, and then frowned. “What about hunters?”

“Hunters?” Stiles repeated. The bells rang and Cora pulled him with her. He belatedly remembered they were in the same class. She always sat at the back while Stiles avoided the windows. Their paths never crossed.

“They want to curb us. Some want us all gone.”

“Well, uh.” That was something he hadn’t considered. Hunters were a thing? “They might not all be like Death Eaters? Maybe we can ask them to be more like Aurors? With wolves and all with them? Working together. I guess. Really, hunters? They are real?”

Cora hummed, eerily like Peter again. “I want in. I like punching people.”

Stiles blinked. “I don’t doubt that.” Her grip _was_ rather strong. “You can be the leader for that. I’ll handle the magic. For now. I can be mind, you can be… meat?”

The look Cora gave him could have curded milk. “Knack and whack?” Stiles tried again. He would have gone for superheroes, but they weren’t magic. It was false advertisement otherwise. Though she would make a mean Wolverine. Could he be Scarlet Witch?

This time the expression melted into something more neutral. Stiles took that as a win and grinned as they sat down. He didn’t even realise how people gave them weirded out looks and no one else sat beside them.

“Operation Knack and Whack, commence!” he said cheerfully. Someone spluttered behind them.

“Kakaaw,” Cora deadpanned.

Stiles got detention for laughing too hard and disturbing the lesson before it even started. He could find it in himself to be sorry though, especially since he found Cora there too. When he asked what she had done to deserve it, she just shrugged.

The smile wouldn’t leave his face all evening.

***

“I could smell you on my way school,” Cora told him when she sat next to him the next day. Stiles sneezed. What was with her and smelling things? Was there some werewolf etiquette he didn’t know? Fancy soaps? He didn’t have—

“—the money for it! But I showered!” he whined. “I promise!”

“Not here.” She pointed at the window. “There.”

“Uh, haven’t been there today. I try to avoid window seats, my ADHD—”

There was a pinched look on Cora’s face. “The preserve,” she said between clenched teeth.

“Oh. Oh! Ooooooh,” Stiles said. The room was suddenly brighter when the lightbulb went off over his head. “Cool. Your sense of smell is that awesome? Wait, not cool, Mietek didn’t want us to be found yet! Peter said—”

“What are you doing,” she stated. It wasn’t even a question. “There.”

“Uh,” Stiles said again. “I mean, runes? Protection? Peter said your protections aren’t, uh, how did he say it? Something about them being not good or that great. He said it somehow very articulately and nicely and I forgot! I made a mental memo and all! His vocabulary is going to make me look so cool.”

“Nerd.”

“Huh?”

Cora grinned, just a little. “It’s going to make you look like a nerd.”

“Rude!” Stiles would feel offended if it wasn’t true already. Though he preferred the term geek. He hadn’t had time to play much recently though. Maybe nerd was right then? “I don’t really like labels,” he mused. “Too hard.”

“Your head is hard,” Cora replied. “Did uncle really say that?”

“Say what?” Stiles scrolled back the mental log. “Protection? Yeah, he mentioned it’s killing two bird with one stone. But why would you kill birds? It’d have to be small ones and they just like to sing and eat bugs and be nice. If it was mean ones, they are too big to kill with a rock you can throw. You know?”

Cora nodded like what he said made perfect sense. “Can I come with you?”

“I don’t know. Can you?”

She gave it a thought. “I will. Later. Mom wants me home tonight.”

“You can ask Peter?”

“Mom wouldn’t like that.”

“Does your mom hate him?” That sounded weird. Isn’t he— "her brother?”

“No, she loves him,” Cora said. “But she also says she doesn’t often like him very much.”

Stiles frowned. “I don’t know if I get that,” he confessed. How could you love someone you don’t like?

Cora shrugged noncommittally. “I’ll make up something,” she said like she was sneaking out all the time. How come Stiles hadn’t known her awesome before this? Though—

“I can ask Peter?” he offered. “Peter’s smart. He might figure out how. And then you wouldn’t have to and you can just say that it wasn’t your idea and it wasn’t! It was mine! No trouble for Cora.” He paused. “Just in case. Not that I doubt your skills. Teach me, master.”

Cora thought about it furiously. The teacher arrived at the front of the class, starting the name roll. Stiles called for Cora when she didn’t answer.

“Okay,” she said finally. Her brows smoothed out. She nodded decisively. “That’s fine.”

“Stilinski!”

“Here!” he yelled and then grinned. “I’ll ask him when I see him next time then. Magic club!”

“But no gnomes,” Cora said. “Uncle said they are the worst.”

“Isn’t that excl-exp—" Stiles took a deep breath. “Ex-clu-sio-nist.”

Cora frowned again. “Their teeth are sharp. And they are dumb. Like—like something very dumb.”

Stiles looked around and lowered his voice, “Like Jackson?”

Cora rolled her eyes. “Dumber.”

“Ooooh.” That made sense then. “Ok, no gnomes.”

“Stilinski and Hale!”

Stiles’ head snapped back to the front and he grinned sheepishly. Mrs. Waters gave them a warning look but went back to the blackboard and explaining… something. It had numbers and letters but it wasn’t English or maths. He squinted but she just managed to hide what she was doing behind her.

Stiles leaned back towards Cora.

“What’s this class about again?”

***

Stiles hummed under his breath as he carved yet another rune on the bark, connecting each one and covering the area with awash of soft glow that only he could see. It was like he was painting a road only he could follow, walk the path that led a peaceful trail of golden runes behind him.

“You are doing well,” Mietek praised above him. Stiles preened. He still missed his mom, badly, but with Mietek there things had been… alright. His dad was there for him, as was Peter, but Mietek was the one who gave him hope for the better. He has lost too much but… perhaps he had also gained some.

It was almost like he had a brother now, he privately thought but didn’t dare to voice it. If he did—

(Once he told his mom he loved her. The next day she called him a monster.)

—he didn’t want to lose this too.

(And then she was gone.)

“Just a few more days and we are done with it,” Peter said, sidestepping a root that tried to answer the golden call of magic. Stiles grinned. He had done that! He was awesome!

Mietek tapped Stiles’ shoulder. “Ask him if he’s sure.”

“Are you sure?” Stiles parroted. He frowned too. “Isn’t this just a small part of the preserve?”

“Yes,” Peter said. He dug into his pocket and threw him a chocolate bar. Stiles cheered. Peter remembered his favourite brand! “It’s no use to ward it all. Just the immediate area.”

“Close to the Hale house?” Stiles asked, mouth full of the sweet goodness that was Reese’s. “Why haven’t they found us yet?”

“I’m the one patrolling this week,” Peter answered. He smiled down at Stiles, but it felt almost like he was laughing at him. With him? Stiles rubbed his mouth and came away empty. He knew he wasn’t that messy. What’s with the face then?

“That’s why we are doing this now,” Mietek said, lazily hovering above them both.

Stiles nodded slowly, taking another bite. Another midnight planning session then. He wondered if he was supposed to feel jealous. “Can Cora come? She wanted to come but said her mom wouldn’t like it. I said I’d ask you.”

Peter blinked, somewhat in unison with Mietek. “You know Cora?”

Stiles nodded again, grinning. “We are in a club together!” he announced cheerfully. Mietek dropped down, carelessly throwing himself on the ground. Stiles made a move to protect his hand work until he remembered that, no, Mietek couldn’t touch them. He sighed in relief. “Heart attack, you give me.”

“Apologise I will,” Mietek replied. Stiles raised his hand for a high five and the felt the slap even though he couldn’t hear it. “What club?”

“Knack and Whack! Kakaaw!” The last ‘kaaw’ echoed in the woods around them. Somewhere he heard a bird answer. Oh. Oh! Could he get a familiar? He wanted an Archimedes of his own! He turned to Mietek, mouth opening—

“Do I want to know?” Peter asked them, him. Stiles’ mouth snapped shut and he shrugged.

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“Not particularly.”

Stiles ducked his head and hid his grin, stuffing the papers in his pocket and starting to work on his runes again. “Can she? I said you were smart. I’d hate to take my words back.”

Peter snorted, amused. “I guess I have to, then. Wouldn’t want you to do that.”

Stiles beamed.

Mietek managed to somehow float upside down in front of Stiles. “I take it she knows then? About you and you knowing about her?”

“Yeah. Do werewolves have some sort of lie detector? Like, a build-in mechanic? Because she’s, like, she can see when people bullshit her. She tripped this guy who was being mean to Little Linda and made him cry!”

“Language,” Mietek and Peter said in unison, before Mietek continued, “They can hear your heartbeat.”

“They can?!” Stiles twisted around so quick he almost fell. He did wave his arms around, just a bit, and Peter took a careful step back. Rude. “Does it mean I could say anything and you would know I’m lying?” A thought sprung up immediately as the words left his mouth, so he quickly amended, “Or if I think I’m right? Because if I don’t know I’m lying I’m not really lying, right?”

Peter stared at him. “I assume we are talking about heartbeats?”

Stiles nodded quickly. For some reason Peter didn’t seem to catch on as fast as Cora. Was it the age thing? Did adults become somewhat slow as they got old? His dad didn’t run as fast as he used to.

“Yes, it doesn’t have to be the actual truth if you believe it. Distinguishing the difference, however, remains for the clever and quick-witted.”

“And there he goes, giving himself compliments. Like he needs any more to inflate his ego,” Mietek mumbled and rolled his eyes. Stiles squinted at him. He was sure he had heard that tone of voice before—

Ah, yes. Now he remembered.

“Do you like Peter?” he asked bluntly. For some reason both Mietek and Peter started to splutter. “Because, just now, it kind of sounded like how Dad talks about—” mom “—cheeseburgers. Do you want to eat him? He’s the wolf though. And you are a ghost. It doesn’t work that way.”

Mietek’s mouth dropped and he looked somehow shinier than before. Stiles leaned forward but Mietek bounced up in the tree and screeched, “Tell Peter to check out the high school!” he said quickly. “Any recent vacancies or upcoming ones!”

“Where are you going?” Stiles called but Mietek disappeared into the tree above them. He stared after him before looking back at Peter. He looked weird too, almost taken aback. Not as shiny as Mietek though. “He left. Said something about vacancies at high school? Are you looking for a job?”

Peter suddenly straightened his back. The smile he gave Stiles didn’t look like ones he had given him before. It— “doesn’t look natural,” he said. “You show too much teeth.”

Peter reached over and ruffled Stiles’ hair. He’d have to cut it soon. It was starting to get long and flop over his eyes. “Because you know me too well. What did I just say about clever people?”

“That they are clever?” Stiles guessed. Peter huffed a laugh.

“That,” he agreed. “And that they are better than lie detectors. Keep up the good work. Did Mietek go?”

Stiles shrugged. “He’s hiding in the bushes. Or trees. Or something. He does that but it’s weird. He’s already a ghost, people can’t see him. Why does he need to hide?”

Peter crouched next to him. “Probably a habit that didn’t leave when he became one. Do you think you would change your mannerisms if you turned invisible to others?”

“Uuuuh.” That was a tough question. “No?”

“Was that a question or an answer?”

“Yes?”

Peter snorted and messed his hair up even more. “Focus on your runes and I’ll try to get Cora with me next time. I can probably talk it up to get her to familiarise with the perimeter.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“Hmm?”

“Running the area. Is that, like, your job or?”

“Part of my duties when I am around,” Peter said. “Not always but often enough so I am familiar with the grounds.”

“So… would Cora be like you then?”

Peter hummed. “I guess she would take after me. Laura will be the new alpha one day and Derek will probably take Marcus’ place as her right hand.”

Stiles scowled. “I don’t like that.” Light washed over the runes and then settled, letting the glow pour into the ground and disappear from sight—for everyone but him, that is.

“What don’t you like?” Peter asked, standing up and wiping the invisible dust on his pants.

“You sister is mean to you. Mietek didn’t think I listened when he ranted one day but I did and I don’t like that. I don’t want Cora’s sister to be mean to her either if all alphas are mean. It’s bad.”

Peter stared at him when Stiles stood up and started moving away to another spot Peter had marked for them earlier the week. He still had three more spots to cover for today—

“You are a good kid, Stiles,” Peter said. His voice sounded weird. Stiles turned to look at him but he just found him smiling at him. “Don’t worry. Laura and Derek will take good care of her.”

“And you.”

“And me.”

“And me too,” Stiles said decisively. “She’s my friend now. And the club’s cofounder. So, you know, she may punch better than I do but I’ll throw a mean rock at anyone who’s being mean to her! I’ll find the right rune for it and it’ll hurt real bad!”

For some reason Peter looked like he was a second from having a strong case of emotions. Of which ones, Stiles didn’t know, but Peter’s mouth was frozen in that smile of his in a sort of unnatural way. Stiles didn’t know how he knew but he knew that he knew that he knew. Or something.

He blinked.

“Oh yeah! Do you think I could get a familiar or does Cora count?”

***

Being at the forest was tons more fun with Cora around. While she didn’t draw on the bark like he did, she still kept him company when the adults got boring. Namely, wrote behind Stiles’ back. Literally. He could feel the tiniest pressure from Mietek’s foot from where he was touching him. It sometimes distracted him from his task, especially when Peter must have written something that shocked him, but mostly it was a… comfortable weight. It reminded how he wasn’t alone.

But now he had company that was focused on him and only him. Mostly. Cora didn’t talk much—she never did, Stiles had noted—but she asked questions when she had any and listened to anything that came to Stiles’ mind. He found himself liking the attention. No one before her had shown this particular brand of consideration. They always drifted off in the end or didn’t get what he was saying or thought he was, well, stupid, when he couldn’t focus. It had happened less now that they knew it was his ADHD talking but the stigma stayed.

No one wanted to be friends with the weird kid.

Except Cora. But she was weird too, so that was all right.

Stiles smiled when Cora pointed out to the little wiggle that kind of reminded Stiles of a tree. Just a little. Cora said it was a hangman, which, no.

“It’s about protection, not killing,” he insisted. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“But if you hurt them and they no longer want to hurt you, wouldn’t that be protection too?” Cora pointed out. He frowned.

“Yesssss,” he drawled. “But with hangman they’d be dead. That’s not a, uh, de-terr-ent, that’s a murder.”

“But if someone dies and no one else comes after him, isn’t that right too?”

“Well, maybe. But then it’d be preme-di-ta-ted. And that’s not okay.”

“But it’d work according to the plan, yes?”

Stiles conceded the point. But. “But Dad doesn’t like that. Killing isn’t good. And he’s the Sheriff soon. It’s the law.”

“Oh?” Peter said behind him. “He’s going to be elected?”

“I mean,” Stiles shrugged. “Who doesn’t like my Dad?”

“Right?” Mietek said cheerfully, nudging Stiles. Stiles returned his grin. Cora gave him one of her signature looks when he was being weird. She had been told of his sort of fairy ghost brother-ish but she had yet to really speak to him, even through Stiles. When asked, she’d just give a non-answer and shrug.

Stiles finished his runes with a flourish and watched the glow settle again. It never got old to him, how beautiful magic could be. He leaned back.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. “I’m bored.”

“No, you’re not,” Cora and Peter said. He stuck his tongue at them.

“Well, I’m curious. So?”

Peter ripped what looked like a page full of notes and folded it into his pocket. “Mietek has found out about a threat in Beacon Hills. We were discussing how to take care of it.”

Something clicked in Stiles’ head. “Cool.” It had probably something to do with that high school thing. Should he—? Skin buzzing in excitement—would his runes get a workout?—he was about to ask when, suddenly, Peter grabbed Cora’s hand from where it lingered near his person. She gave him a glare to which Peter only laughed.

“More subtlety, Cora,” he said. “You need to be able to spy even when people know you are there, watching you.”

“Isn’t that impossible?” questioned Stiles. Peter opened his mouth to answer but it was Cora who beat him to it, shaking her head and muttering, “Misdirection.”

Peter, for lack of a better word, _beamed_. “Exactly.”

They didn’t elaborate even when Stiles begged. They probably thought it was funny.

He needed new friends.

(Watching them tease him, with Mietek in stitches above, made him feel so warm.)

***

“So what were you really talking about?”

“Your awful buzzcut.”

“ _Rude._ ”

***

“Hey, Stiles!” Laura waved at him, grinning. Stiles noted that she had been picking her up at school for a while now. “Do you need a lift?”

“Yes,” Cora answered for him and tugged him along with her, as if he’d turn down a free ride and take the bus instead. There was no fight to give up. Laura grinned.

“Good, we’re picking Derek up too. You haven’t met him yet, have you, Stiles?”

“No,” he said. Though for not lack of trying. Cora’s mysterious brother was just that, mysterious. While Laura wasn’t what he was expecting—she seemed better than the copy of Peter’s sister he had feared she was—he couldn’t say the same for Derek.

Who was he? Was he more like Cora or Laura? Neither? Both?

Stiles was curious.

Mietek dived to him. He didn’t say anything but he kept… fidgeting. He couldn’t stay still. Stiles had noticed being able to float made it even more obvious. Whereas Stiles could attempt stillness by standing straight, he… couldn’t. There was no ground to lean against for support.

And it was super distracting. Stiles wished he could say something but… Laura. While she chatted with Cora—or more like she bombed her with questions and Cora grunted in answer—Mietek kept floating around almost nervously. Stiles pursed his lips.

Had something happened? Did he know Derek? What was going _on_? All these questions begged to be answered but, no, he couldn’t voice them. Stiles was ushered into the car and the backseat with Cora, Laura jumping onto the wheel. She burst out of the parking lot with more speed than necessary; granted, it was already mostly empty, but had Stiles’ father been there, she would’ve gotten a thousand tickets.

They parked in front of the high school amid Laura’s continuous chatter—and Stiles couldn’t focus, he tried, he tried so hard, but he couldn’t—and Cora’s concerned looks. She knew he was bothered but how could he say anything? _He_ didn’t know what bothered him.

The door to the passenger’s seat opened and in slid a boy that was at least five years Stiles’ senior. Dark hair, pale skin that looked like it hadn’t seen sun for months—it was _California_ —and… sad eyes. Stiles blinked. He would’ve thought him cute if not for the grief present in those eyes. Not that he wasn’t cute, but this was not the time to think him cute. Maybe.

Why was he so sad?

“How did your day go, baby bro?” Laura asked. She leaned towards him but Derek—it had to be Derek—swatted her away with a quiet, “Leave it, Laura.”

“At least say hi to Stiles.”

Derek’s eyes found Stiles in the mirror. “Stiles?”

Laura snorted. “You know, Cora’s new bestie. She’s been talking about her nonstop, don’t you listen?”

“I mentioned him twice, Laura,” Cora said, brows furrowing.

“That’s practically a love confession from you, Cor.”

“We are best friends with benefits,” Stiles announced. Laura paused from where she was turning the engine on and leaned back to look at him. Even Derek blinked at him owlishly.

“Say what now?” she said. “What are you youngsters doing nowadays?”

“You are not _that_ old,” Cora said.

“Well, you make me _feel_ like it.” Laura scratched her head, fingers tangling in her hair. “Not that I think fourth graders should think about the birds and the bees yet. Really, what the _fuck_?”

Stiles flushed and shrugged sheepishly. “Down the rabbit hole.”

“And that means?”

“He spiralled,” Cora translated. “Weren’t you listening?”

Laura threw her hands up and hit the car ceiling. “I give up. You deserve each other. Hey, Der, is it true that your teacher got kicked out? Missy said that Frankie told her that Finstock was heard cursing about it to Wes who had heard it from Maddie.”

“Why does she have a spy network and you don’t?” Stiles questioned Cora. She hit him in return. Derek shrugged nonchalantly.

“Ms Silverstone’s message cited personal reasons,” he said. “Or that’s what Mrs Martin said.”

“Any relation to Clueless?”

“You are clueless.”

“Don’t be mean! Was she vapid? Young? Blond? Rich?” Laura listed as she finally pulled out behind a truck. “I need details!”

“Get them from your groupies,” Derek grunted.

That decided it.

“You take after Cora,” Stiles said. He nodded to himself even as Laura sent him a curious look. Cora, on the other hand, just rolled her eyes. Again. Her eyes would roll out one day if she continued.

“Mind your own business,” Cora grumbled. “Laura, I want a donut.”

“You have cookies at home.”

“Not donuts.”

When Stiles finally realised how silent Mietek had been, he turned to him, only to see him grinning madly where he was twirling in the air behind the car. He frowned.

What did he miss?

***

When Stiles and Mietek arrived home, it was to see Peter sitting on Stiles’ bed, flipping through a comic. Stiles squinted. It was one of his Batmans. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Peter drawled, not looking away from his page.

“Laura took us for donuts,” Stiles announced. He could still taste the sugar. Their local Honeyduke’s was a _fantastic_ bakery! No regrets. “Cora insisted.”

“Cora would only eat donuts if she could.” Peter stretched. “Despite the glower, she has a massive sweet tooth.”

“Like you?” Mietek laughed. It sounded fond. Stiles sneaked a look and, yeah, there it was. Mietek _liked_ Peter.

“Have you confessed yet?” he asked. “Because I’m not doing it for you. Use your love letters.” Peter narrowed his eyes while Mietek choked. Stiles wondered how he could do that. It wasn’t like he could breathe. “Or are you waiting for a right moment? Because in that case, sorry, I didn’t mean to. Or I did but not. I’m not your mouthpiece. Except I am. Damn it.”

“What—Stiles!” Mietek had that silvery shine to him again. His hands were also clenching open and close. He sort of looked like he wanted to fade away again. Or strangle him. Either or. Stiles wasn’t sure, it wasn’t an unusual reaction to what came out of his mouth.

“Because people don’t like frogs,” he mused out loud. Which sucks. Frogs were amazing. Shaking his head, he continued, “You’ve been flirting, like, a lot lately. Not all that sappy stuff from romcoms but, like, snarky. You don’t sass anyone the same way.”

“ _I don’t talk to anyone but you two_!”

“And you,” Stiles pointed at Peter. “You have that weird look in your eyes whenever you talk to Mietek. Like you want to steal him and hide him in your closet.”

“That was oddly specific,” Peter commented over Mietek’s choking. “I thought the only answer to excess sass was to kill.”

“You would miss him too much,” Stiles stated matter-of-factly. “And can’t kill the dead. Unless you bring them to life.”

“Which reminds me.” Peter grabbed a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Stiles. Curiously, he opened it and looked over the mess of runes and written notes.

“I thought you’d have more sense to be neat with your handwriting,” Stiles said. The rune for calling for life, for example, was dangerously close to dipping into reaching for hell. “I didn’t slave to perfect my calligraphy to die because of someone else’s mess.”

Mietek touched his shoulder lightly as he peeked past him. It was still an odd sensation, a barely there pressure. “The ‘y’ doesn’t curve like Peter’s.”

Stiles followed the line Mietek drew on the paper. “Oh, yeah. Fancier dip, isn’t it? And the ‘s’ isn’t quite there either.”

“You’ve seen his?”

“Yeah,” he said, focusing on the rune work again. What was the point? “You left some of your love letters for me to find.”

He didn’t realise that Mietek had grown frigid over him and the look in Peter’s eyes sharpened.

“Oh?” Peter said carefully. “How sloppy of me.” When Stiles merely hummed, Peter added, “Must’ve not been particularly interesting.”

“Huh? Well, yeah, it was actually.” Shaking the distraction off, he yawned. He should’ve gotten more sleep last night but he had just been buzzing under his skin— “I mean, not always you find out your older self has come back to the past to right the wrongs.”

The silence grew loud. Stiles glanced at the shocked and horrified expressions on Peter’s and Mietek’s faces before cracking up. He howled in mirth.

“What’s so funny?!” Mietek demanded when Stiles wiped the tears from his eyes. Stiles giggled again.

“You looked like you’d seen a ghost!” he said, his cheer not lessening. “I’m nine, not an idiot. I can put one plus one together too.”

“How?” Peter asked, calmer than Stiles’ older counterpart. Stiles shrugged, his shoulders nearly dislodging Mietek’s hand.

“Math?”

Peter’s lips twitched in amusement while Mietek flailed. Stiles realised how he’d probably never outgrow that. Well, that was depressing.

“You woke me up,” he clarified. “When Mandy was here. And then you forgot your notes.”

Mietek paled under his half-there presence. Stiles patted the hand that was on him. “I don’t mind anymore,” he said. “After I got over the shock… it made sense, you know? You knew too much, even things mom didn’t. And Mietek is just a shortened Mieczysław, after all.”

“You do get single-minded with a mystery,” Peter said. He leaned against the wall again, seemingly relaxing. “I am not surprised.”

Mietek’s shock was bleeding out quickly, but what left was quickly replaced by some intense-looking guilt. “I’m sorry,” Mietek said. He cringed. “I lied to you.”

Stiles shrugged yet again and shook his head. “No,” he said. He jumped on the bed, bouncing on it. “I mean, yeah, you did. But it wasn’t—I know you did. But you didn’t.”

Mietek frowned at him. Stiles laughed. “You may not have been sent here by mom, but you sure acted like it. You did all these things mom would have and I… don’t mind. I did at first when it was like just you and Peter at one point and it was all about the notes and like you were ignoring me again or just using me for the runes but now I know you weren’t. I get it. You wouldn’t do that to me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Mietek hastily said. “You are—better. And I wouldn’t, you deserve better than what I was.”

Stiles tilted his head, confused. “You’re not that bad,” he said. “You came back to save people and did what you could with… what you had. I don’t know what happened where you came from but, me? I think I rather like the idea of having people to save. It means I have a lot to look forward to. People who will like me for me. Isn’t that all anyone can really ask for?”

This seemed to shut Mietek’s brain. He just gaped at Stiles, perplexed… and hopeful? Peter barked a sudden laugh, startling them both.

“Yes, you will, little minx,” he chuckled. “And that’s what we’ve already started.”

“Does this mean you’ll stop keeping me in the dark?” Stiles inquired.

“You’re still in elementary school. Let’s see what the future brings, hmm?” Peter pointed at the paper in Stiles’ hands. “That’s a ritual my contact gave me. Tell me, what do you see?”

“There’s either an element of bringing people alive or damning them forever,” Stiles recited. “I’d hope we’d go for the first. There’s also something about binding and creating a body. Very anime.”

“Anime?” Peter asked while Mietek seemed to find it extremely funny for some reason. Mietek suddenly threw his arms around Stiles, hugging him as tightly as he could.

“Thank you,” he said, voice clear and bright in Stiles’ ear. Stiles smiled. He felt like he could glow like the sun.

“And really?” he couldn’t help adding, “I see those same moles in the mirror every single day. Do you really think I wouldn’t become at all suspicious seeing them on someone else?”

***

Stiles circled one last time over the circle, checking that everything was in place for the creation ritual. “I really hope this won’t blow in our face,” he said. “A metal arm I wouldn’t mind but I wouldn’t look good in a full-body armour.”

“For the last time, this is not an anime,” Peter said. He had been forced to watch what was, apparently, a first version of a Japanese cartoon—"It’s an anime!”—and, while sufficiently well-made, wasn’t something Peter particularly enjoyed.

“We are creating a body from ingredients and putting in the middle of a circle with runes written all over it. It’s very alchemy-esque.” Stiles waited for Mietek to do one last look himself, both finding no faults in it. They had researched the ritual to their best ability and done some minor tweaks to it—such as making space for Mietek’s soul—but all in all, it didn’t take them longer than a couple of months to work it into something they could use. Cora, in particular, was a huge help since she could claim personal interest without gaining her mother’s ire and suspicion as easily.

After all, she had enjoyed the anime just as much as Stiles had.

“It’s part of our club,” she had just told Talia seriously and they had watched the Hale alpha crumble under the pleading children. Peter had gotten particularly gleeful over the incident and deemed Cora his favourite nibling, not that that hadn’t been obvious since the beginning.

She sat there, reciting the materials, as Peter counted them just in case. “Everything seems to be in place here as well,” he said after Cora fell silent.

“All the 35 litres of water, 20 kilogrammes of carbon…”

“And the space for the soul. We get it, Stiles. Don’t kill the joke,” Cora said.

Stiles pouted. “Fine.” He gestured to the pile and gave Mietek a look. “There you go, Mr. No Body. Hop in.”

“Boy’s got jokes,” Mietek said dryly before floating over the circle lines. He sat primly on the pile. “Giving me a send-off too?”

“We are not banishing you,” Stiles said. He paused. “Unless you want to be?”

“No,” Mietek said quickly, Peter echoing him. Cora and Stiles exchanged a look and rolled their eyes in tandem. Mietek scowled. “Don’t be so cruel.”

“You make it so easy,” Stiles replied. He kneeled down, hands hovering over the runes. “Ready?”

“As could be.”

Stiles grinned. “See you on the other side,” he said cheerfully and slammed his hands down. The lines started glowing instantly, a bluish hue turning to gold quickly. The ingredients rose into the air and started slowly swirling until Stiles could no longer see Mietek in the midst of the storm. A figure started being built and grow in density; no water could no longer be seen in the air, absorbed into the body as it was, and the little bits and bats clung to the figure.

“Whoa,” he heard Cora exhale and if he wasn’t trying his hardest to focus he’d have agreed. As it was, it was extremely difficult to not pull his hands away. It almost felt like something was pulling him in, or rather, tearing itself apart. The pain was immense. It was as if a part of him was ripping itself off his very soul. It almost reminded him of when he saw Mietek the first time, only then something much larger pushed inside him and almost caused him to choke on it all.

And then, like nothing had ever happened, it stopped.

Stiles gasped for air—breathing was _not_ overrated, no matter what anyone said—and he fell on his arms and then on his back, panting. He hurt. Everything in him hurt. He couldn’t even force his eyes open.

“This is what you look like in the future?” Cora asked. She didn’t seem to want an answer because she immediately continued with a, “My condolences.”

“Hey,” he said weakly—except he could barely get a breath out. Yet someone spoke. Someone whose voice no longer had that slight echo it had always had that he could recognise now, only not hear.

“It worked?” he whispered. His voice had a strange gravel to it.

“It worked,” the same voice from before said and then Stiles was raised to lie on someone’s lap. He forced his eyes open to see a pair an exact twin to his. He couldn’t help the wide smile that spread on his face, wicked in its glee.

“I’m the best.”

“You are,” Mietek said, brushing his forehead. “Fantastic even.”

“Is that self-love or incest?”

“Cora,” Stiles groaned. He heard Cora huff.

“Can you feel the bond anymore, Mietek?” Peter asked. Stiles could hear something in his voice that he could not recognise—something thick, strong.

“Just the same old me,” Mietek said. His smile wouldn’t fade when his eyes left Stiles’. “Just a regular human.”

“Where’d your magic go?” Cora questioned. Stiles heard her stand up and walk closer until he could see her from the corner of his eyes. “The void beyond?”

“It stayed right where it should be,” Mietek answered. His hand never paused in its petting. Exhaustion started to make home to Stiles’ bones and he felt heavier with every breath he took.

Stiles smiled at Mietek sleepily. “Are you my brother now?”

He saw Mietek’s joy turn into outright delight. He reached and traced Stiles’ cheek in a gentle caress, voice choked, “If you want me to.”

Stiles burrowed close, his thoughts quieting and mind drifting off. “I always wanted a brother,” he mumbled against Mietek’s thigh. The caresses never stopped and slowly lulled him to sleep. He never saw the tears fall down Mietek’s cheeks as he whispered,

“Always.”


	4. Epilogue: Mietek

Mietek sat on the Stilinski house’s back porch. It was calm, quiet even, and the sun warmed his skin. He closed his eyes. He could feel the sunrays dance on his skin. He had forgotten how little he had felt; how he had felt nothing. Days after days, weeks turning into months, at some point he had just forgotten what feeling things had felt like. He was sensitive, like a new-born.

Which, in truth, wasn’t wrong. His body was not the one he had born in—not that he was certain it had been before, due to the nogitsune. This didn’t have a taint of the trauma it had experienced. While his mind wasn’t as well-adjusted to the present—his _new_ present—he didn’t feel as heavy as he once had.

The only thing that had stayed past the void was—

“I would’ve thought the tattoos would be gone.”

Mietek grinned. “They were painted to connect to my soul, to send me back. How’s Stiles?”

“Sleeping like the dead. Cora’s keeping watch over him.”

“The ritual probably drained all the magic he had, both his and mine. He’ll be right as rain after sleeping for a few days.”

“Done similar before?”

“Rituals this exhausting?” Mietek shrugged, leaning back to soak in the sun. “Now, where would I?”

Peter gave him a look to which he just raised his brows. Peter snorted. “I meant before coming to the past.”

“I have, a few times. They are… not important. Not anymore.”

Peter sat next to him. “Memories always are. They shape us for what we are. If you ever want to talk about things…” he trailed off, leaving Mietek to fill in the void. He closed his eyes, smile just as warm as the sun.

“Thank you.”

There were things he would have to open about, to correct, but he didn’t have to. Not yet. His thoughts took wistful turn. “My life may be just a memory now that the future’s been rewritten, but… They’re here now. All of them, alive. That’s something, right?”

“Right,” Peter agreed. “And we don’t have to give any of them up anymore.”

Mietek leaned against him. “We?”

“But of course. Do you think I’m giving up now either?”

“No.” Even though he expected the answer, it still sent a tingle of relief down his spine. “It wouldn’t be you if you did.”

“Did you—” Peter paused for a fraction of a second, the only sign of nervousness, “—know the other me well?”

“No,” Mietek repeated. “He wasn’t ready, or willing, for any close relationships.”

The Peter from the future had disappeared, maybe even died, after Mietek’s graduation years ago. And even before that he had been a bitter man.

“Then why come to me?”

“Because I didn’t want to see that scene on the swing happen ever again,” he said, and pressed his hand on Peter’s knee.

“You were there,” Peter said and then barked a short laugh, slightly bitter. “Of course you manage to be there for my lowest moment.”

“Mmm,” he hummed. “And that told me that you were different. You could be reached for now. And I found myself wanting to know who you were as well, the more time went by. Even…”

Peter shifted next to him and he could feel the arm hover above his shoulder. “Even?”

“I, uh. Maybe I could have, you know, grown a few. Feelings. Perhaps,” Mietek said, haltingly. The arm curled around him, pulling him close.

“How fortunate. I guess this means I won’t leave you alone for the foreseeable future.”

“How fortunate,” he echoed. They sat there for a while, enjoying the present company and the peace between and around them.

“Will you still go by Mietek?” Peter asked after a while.

Mietek hummed again. “I think the world doesn’t need two Stiles… but there might be space for a Mietek.”

Peter chuckled. It rumbled against Mietek’s side. “You might be right.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“Now, don’t get too full of yourself.”

“Spoilsport.”

“You really don’t have any magic left?”

Mietek closed his eyes. The warm bundle surrounding his soul, once been there for him to reach, was hidden away from him. He could feel it, barely, keeping him alive, but it wasn’t there for him to touch. “Not any I can use.”

Peter nodded. They sat there for a while again.

“Soooooo,” Mietek said when the silence got too much. Peace was nice and all but— “Do you want to murder a geriatric serial killer who’s going to follow his daughter’s footsteps here? There’s also an option of toppling over the American hunter dynasty.”

Peter smirked. He cradled Mietek’s hand in his and bent over it, lips touching the back as he practically purred:

“I thought you’d never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know your thoughts if you have the time to spare :)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://hali-ra.tumblr.com/).


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